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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28438923">See the Sun Set</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MxThmxNn/pseuds/MxThmxNn'>MxThmxNn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(maybe), Additional Warnings Apply, Adopted Abigail Hobbs, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BB's theme (Death Stranding), Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Married Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Mentioned Garret Jacob Hobbs, Mentioned Mischa Lecter, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Not Beta Read, Oblivious Will Graham, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character, Sassy Will Graham, Slow Burn (Sort Of), Some canon plotpoints, Will Graham Has Daddy Issues, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, Will Graham Has Nightmares, Younger Abigail Hobbs, other characters not mentioned in tags</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:01:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>36,627</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28438923</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MxThmxNn/pseuds/MxThmxNn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU based off BB's Theme from the game Death Stranding (although it has absolutely nothing to do with the game itself other than the theme) where Abigail is a little kid when the whole Garret Jacob Hobbs case happens and Hannibal decides to adopt her. He sings her this specific lullaby to sleep every night as she gets older. Of course he drags Will into the fray and then it goes downhill from there, so I hope y'all like pain. :')</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham &amp; Abigail Hobbs &amp; Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Daybreak</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>kjdsfdkjf the brainrot got to me again and the second I heard BB's Theme i couldn't get the thought of Hannibal singing it to Abigail out of my head and wrote this and,,, ouch</p><p>(Also I know I can't keep a consistent verb tense, I'll fix that e v e n t u a l l y)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“What is your name, little one?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Abigail,” she starts, “Abigail Hobbs.” The girl looked so small sitting in the leather armchair. Hannibal wasn’t particularly used to working with children, but the FBI brought her to his doorstep to evaluate. “Can I go home?” she whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal leans back in his own chair. He rarely pitied patients, but this was different. Hannibal had an obligation to this one, a duty to fill after he stopped the blood from spilling out her neck with his own hands at the crime scene a few weeks ago. “No, I’m afraid not,” He sighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail shifts around a bit, staring at her toes and sucking on the edge of her scarf. The piece of purple fabric covering the scar. “Who are you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m doctor Hannibal Lecter, do you remember me, Abigail?” Hannibal answers. The doctor has known about Abigail since he accompanied Will Graham and the FBI to Minnesota. But he talks to her like they’ve never met before to assess the effects of trauma on her memory.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kinda” she says. “But not really...Why can I not go home?” The childish curiosity and stubbornness still clear in her voice.  Normally such impatience and persistent questioning would irk Doctor Lecter, but he refrains from expressing irritation. He watches as Abigail’s bright blue eyes shift around the office around him. The shelves of books reflect around in her glassy stare. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s because my dad is dead,” she says bluntly, falling into her scarf. “You were there right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal purses his lips and looks down to the notebook in his lap. “I was, very good.” He scrawls down some notes with a fountain pen. “How are you feeling? Does the loss of your father make you sad?” The word ‘sad’ could never cover the enveloping despair that comes with grief. But Hannibal decides that’s not something he should lay on a six-year-old.  The little girl continues to fidget with her scarf. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Abigail has developed self soothing behaviors attached to and involving the scarf she wears to cover her neck.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Is written down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm, I guess. We always used to go hunting together, he wanted to teach me how to skin deer like he did. I kinda miss that, he wasn’t mean to me either. And, and I miss all those babysitters he’d have over. I didn’t think he’d be,” She glanced up to Hannibal, initiating eye contact. “You know,” Abigail then drew a line in the air over her neck and rolled her eyes back, mimicking a death. She let out a laugh after. Hannibal let himself smile a little at her joke, make her more comfortable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A chord struck in the back of Hannibal’s mind. It was sharp and melancholy. Something about knowing that a kid this young could possibly comprehend that her father was not only a murderous cannibal, but attempted to kill her could </span>
  <em>
    <span>joke</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it much less remember. Children faced hardship and go through the nightmarish aspects of life and that didn’t matter to Hannibal. Their hardships didn’t matter very much. But for some reason, this one did. Abigail Hobbs was a personal case to him, his hands prevented her from dying. An attachment much like he had with Mischa, all though he failed to save her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But yeah, it’s kinda sad that I can’t go back home. I’ll miss all my friends at school. I didn’t have a lot of them. The other kids at the hospital just like to laugh at me,” She said calmly, her little glittery shoes tapping against the fine leather of the chair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal leans forward, taking himself down to Abigail’s level. “Speaking of the hospital, how is your treatment going with Doctor Bloom? She sent me some of her reports on your progress but I’d like to hear it from you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail, now twisting a free lock of brown hair around her finger, crumples her face in to think. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>adorable</span>
  </em>
  <span>, “Miss Bloom is nice to me. She talks to me a lot about feelings, like you, but- I don’t really get why,” She says. “I was scared a lot when my dad did that to me, but I don’t remember that much. Miss Bloom said that the lots of medicine from when they closed my neck can make me forget.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s good, thank you for telling me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A silence permeated the air for a second, morning light poured in through the window into Lecter’s study. The air was calm between the two as the doctor printed notes into his notebook. The stillness was then interrupted by a knock on the door.  The first couple raps startled Abigail, her eyes opening all the way and her shoulders pushed up to her ears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Allow me to get that, I’m so sorry Abigail,” Hannibal said, rising. He straightened his suit and walked over to answer the door. He opens it with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>whoosh</span>
  </em>
  <span> of air that seemed to come from the outside. It’s brisk and sharp. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Doctor, so I-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal places a firm hand in front of him, calming the storm that is Will Graham. Will stops talking and looks up at the older man. Worry is found all over his face and he’s frantic. His mouth is left agape, holding on to his last thought, a rant is about to spill through his lips but he heeds Hannibal’s order to just calm down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will, come in, but please I am talking with a very</span>
  <em>
    <span> special</span>
  </em>
  <span> patient as of now.” Hannibal’s set office hours were now completely irrelevant to Will. The damage caused by killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs and general work stress has prompted him to practically live in Hannibal’s study. The two often ate dinner together after therapy and have bonded as something akin to a very close friendship. He was allowed in at any hour. Hannibal turns to the side as Will steps in through the doorway finally. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then the world shatters when Will’s eyes lock onto the patient. He closes his stuttering mouth and he looks over at Hannibal. They communicate without words, something about how this was absolutely the </span>
  <em>
    <span>worst</span>
  </em>
  <span> time for Will to come confessing his nightmares and hallucinations of Hobbs, especially when his daughter was right there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail was bouncing on the cushion of the chair when she turned her head around to go look at Hannibal. She sees him just now shutting the door and nodding his head. She then looks at Will. Little lips fall open into a gasp and her blank expression morphs into something more confused as she looks at him. Something washes over Will and his heart sinks. He gives her an awkward little smile as his shaky hands resolved themselves into his pockets, sweat collecting on the fabric.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You killed my dad, right? You’re Will Graham.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those words put everyone in the room at a state of pure shock. This little kid got one of the most rational and emotionless men on the planet, Hannibal fucking Lecter, to let out an exasperated gasp. He wasn’t an expert at pediatric psychiatry, but just witnessing Abigail interact with the world around her was so intriguing, a child so laden with immense trauma yet so placid and juvenile. Her mind was something he wanted to dig open- no. Something he wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>protect.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The special agent’s mouth turns to pure sand as he tries and forms a response. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, Abigail, I really am.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay.” The girl hops out of the chair to go walk over to the two adults. She goes to Will first; she gets very close to him, a foot or so away. Scanning, his figure for just a moment, apprehensive at first but her shoulders soon relax slightly. “You were just doing your job, mister. And Miss Bloom said you were with her when she read me stories while I was in a coma.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Coma</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Abigail overenunciated the word, it was one she’d likely never heard until recently. Sure, it wasn’t a hard one to say, but it was vocabulary that a standard six-year-old shouldn’t know so intimately. It was hard for Will not to die of guilt on the spot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She offered her delicate hand out to Will to shake, smiling vaguely, </span>
  <em>
    <span>innocently</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Will crouched down a little to accept. He made sure to take her hand with gentleness. A couple good shakes later and Abigail is laughing. Will can’t help but let out a chuckle along with her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re okay, Will Graham,” She says.  "I think you're okay, but you should wash your hands. They're sweaty." Abigail giggles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will laughs a little, and he sucks the back of his teeth and nods. <em>Fair enough.</em></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will hums as he stands back up. He sees Hannibal quietly observing. He’s wearing a tender smile and for once it looks like there’s light behind his eyes. The two men look at each other and do their almost telepathic communication. Whatever the reason was, they wanted to protect Abigail Hobbs. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dusk</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A drive home</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It has been long since Alana dropped by to pick up Abigail. And as usual, Will and Hannibal are juxtaposed in their seats, talking to each other. </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t keep doing this.”</p><p> </p><p>“Doing what, Will?”</p><p> </p><p>“Going to sleep at night knowing I will end up seeing Hobbs over and over. It’s crushing, especially since talking to Abigail earlier. I can’t do it, Doctor.” Will’s shoulders are tense and his whole body was trembling, overflowing with anxiety. His irises are darting around behind his glasses. “The one I had tonight especially. Those dead eyes looking straight into mine, mocking me, watching me become a killer, it’s too much. I can hear his laughter ringing in my ears- crime after crime, kill after kill in my dreams. They don’t feel like dreams at all.” </p><p> </p><p>His eyes catch sight of Hannibal writing down his thoughts. Warm light caresses the side of his figure, a picture painted in jewel tones. Will has no clue how he could always be so still and picturesque while he was having a nervous breakdown. He was out of place in such an elegant office, an observer interacting with fine art. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s very natural to be haunted by killings. Especially since you have no records of using lethal force on the job. But what about Hobbs is clawing at you Will? Do you feel a paternal link with Abigail? Is the burden of her fathers life on your-”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you, Doctor Lecter?” Will interrupted with ragged breathing. </p><p> </p><p>“Do I?”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you feel a paternal obligation to Abigail Hobbs?”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s eyes scan over his notes briefly with contemplation. He doesn’t hesitate with his answer. “Of course I feel obligated. It's staggering. I saved her life, there is a connection I have never felt before. Even in all my years as an Emergency Room surgeon, where I’ve operated on numerous children, but all of them were impersonal. It was work. With Abigail, there was a plea in her eyes, a fight to live I’ve never witnessed from a child before. Well,” Hannibal trails, refusing to dwell on the thought. </p><p> </p><p>Will sits up in his chair, letting himself sink down comfortably into the leather. He sucks in a slow breath and pushes up his glasses before answering. “Real sappy, doctor,” he teases, nodding his head to the side. “But, I guess I do. I don’t think I’m ready for kids, I’ve got all my dogs back at home anyways. There was something with Abigail, however. Like I need to fill the void her father left behind,” he stopped for a second, “Left behind after <em> I </em> killed him.” His voice cracked on the “I” a sliver of the southern drawl he’s repressed so deeply slipped out adding an ‘ah’ to the end of the word.</p><p> </p><p>The psychiatrist tilts his head ever so slightly, smiling genuinely once again. “It seems you have a very natural connection with her. I could almost picture you as her father. Seeing you with her earlier, she exhibited no fear or hesitation around you.”</p><p> </p><p>“That doesn’t indicate that she actually trusts me. Kids can learn deceit if you teach them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Clever. That’s a very insightful observation, Will. But what I see in Abigail when she’s around you is a pure forgiveness.”</p><p> </p><p>“You really think so? Hannibal, she made fun of my sweaty hands.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal stifles a laugh. “I know so, Will.” The doctor checks his watch, it’s 8:30 but the outside was now totally dark. “It’s 8:30, would you like to end our session here?” he asks. “Of course, you’re welcome to stay for dinner.”</p><p> </p><p>Will shakes his head slightly. “Uh, sure. I don’t really have much to say beyond that anyways.” He stirs in his seat and Hannibal stands up with him, clutching the undoubtedly expensive notebook with one hand. He returns the cap back onto the body of his fountain pen and places it in the pocket of his blazer. The gold clip glimmers in the light. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal follows Will to the door, staying close behind him, but not on his heels. Will’s hand stalls on the handle of the doorknob for a second. </p><p> </p><p>“Shit, I called a cab here,” He realized. “My car is still at the academy, security won’t let an unknown vehicle into the parking lot and I’m pretty sure campus is closed.”</p><p> </p><p>“Allow me to drive you home then, the roads have not been plowed yet and a standard cab’s wheels cannot handle the ice,” Hannibal offered.</p><p> </p><p>“No, Doctor, I-”</p><p> </p><p>“I insist, I’m sure Jack wouldn’t be happy if you didn’t get home in time, running on an even greater lack of sleep.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, where the hell did you learn to drive? I’m sure they have roads in Paris,” Will whined.</p><p> </p><p>“They do,” Hannibal mused. His eyes locked on the dark horizon and windshield wipers. “Would you like me to slow down?”</p><p> </p><p>Will exhaled like he’d been holding in his breath for the first 30 minutes of their drive (he probably was). Each heave of his chest resembled nervous laughter. “You don’t say. You’re going incredibly fast for us being on an icy freeway, and don’t think I didn’t catch you nearly run half of those red lights back in Baltimore.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, to answer your question, I did learn how to drive in Paris. But I first learned the road on a motorbike, speed limits are not limits as much as they are suggestions. Letting go of them can be very cathartic. ”</p><p> </p><p>“You think nearly swerving into a ravine is cathartic?” Will replied. He cannot believe his very eyes right now, he’s never been awake while Hannibal drove him home and it was an enigma how he hasn’t been seriously injured. “For such an intelligent man I’d think you’d have some common sense on the road.” </p><p> </p><p>“Did you just insult me, Will?” Hannibal glances up into the rearview mirror to make brief eye contact with Will. </p><p> </p><p>“You know, I guess I did.”</p><p> </p><p>“Very well, I suppose we aren’t interacting on professional terms, it is fitting that our dialogue is not very professional either. Consider this ride home a favor from a friend, Will.” Another smile tugged at the edges of Hannibal’s lips. Today seemed to amuse him more than others. “I also <em> have </em> common road sense, it’s just not something I need to use.” He flashed will a quick look and only averted his gaze when he saw the silent laugh Will tried and failed to stop. </p><p> </p><p>The drive across state borders was filled with banter, conversation only halting as Hannibal stopped to pay the occasional toll. His <em> unconventional </em> means of transportation terrified Will half to death but the doctor wouldn’t be anything if not efficient. </p><p> </p><p>They were in Virginia in no time, this was quite a long drive for Will to not feel anxious at the thought of leaving literally all of his stuff off his person at Work, but he could make a few calls to get back in no time. That was a concern for the Will at 7:30 tomorrow morning. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you really think I’d be a good father, Hannibal?” Will asks, changing the subject of their talk away from the FBI’s current case. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s not what I said, but I could see it. You take very good care of your dogs. Albeit they are a little rowdy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Seriously, they’re dogs, wild animals can’t be trapped and trained forever. They’ll lose their spirit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that why you like them so much? Your yearning of freedom can be let out through maintaining strays,” Hannibal says, turning. They were now at the mouth of the commercial-residential zone and closer to home.  </p><p> </p><p>“I guess,” Will answers dryly. His lips puckered slightly knowing that even on a late night drive home, he would still get jabbed with psychoanalysis. He decides to change the subject slightly. “What’s up with you and Abigail, doctor? I thought you didn’t want kids.”</p><p> </p><p>The remark catches Hannibal off guard a bit. His lips part to say something but it takes some time before he answers. “I never saw the appeal of having children, but she just reminds me so much of Mischa. I cannot help but be very protective of her.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mischa?”</p><p> </p><p>“My sister. She sadly is not here with us. I was left an only child soon after I was orphaned, so I had to keep her safe. Only true and familial love I’ve ever felt. I cannot help but have such a feeling towards Abigail,” He confessed. Everything about Hannibal Lecter seemed like such a guarded secret to Will. Very little backstory, an incredulous academic record to cover it, a façade that covered over something much deeper underneath. Hearing him so casually admit something so personal as the loss of his dear sister perplexed Will. It was best he didn’t question it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>lmao I had to sneak in the headcanon that Hannibal can't drive somewhere</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Noontime</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Excuse any inaccuracies with realism here, consider instead: chicken tenders</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I’m thinking of adopting her,” Hannibal says, dicing a shallot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s a bold move, Hannibal,” Alana replies, taking a sip of her beer. “I didn’t think you were the parenting type.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighs, stopping his knife mid slice. “It seems nobody does. But, I think it is what’s best for her, I couldn’t bear to see her shoved into foster care. I fear that the trauma may burden her further.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alana stands up from her seat and walks over to the island at the center of the kitchen, she braces her manicured hand on the cold steel, staring at her colleague. “ You’ve been more empathetic lately, I think our mutual curiosity digging around in Will Graham’s brain has rubbed off on you. But, Abigail isn’t your patient, Hannibal, she’s mine, and I don’t know if I’m ready to tell the social worker to just hand the kid to you.”  The brunette walks over and places her empty glass in the sink behind Lecter, who was now thinly slicing a kidney of sorts, it’s (hopefully) pork. “Besides, I don’t think a six-year-old would be okay with having a constant diet of animal organs. I don’t even think you can cook kid food,” Alana remarked, wearing a smirk on her face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She anticipated to look up at her colleague smiling at her jokes, but his face is flat and emotionless. Something concerned is knitting the space between his brows close together and his lips are downturned, but as far as she knows, he was emotionless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Children can acquire taste with exposure. I prepare internal organs because they provide vital nutrients you can’t get from standard cuts. They’re also far simpler to obtain ethically, slaughterhouses tend to discard them by the masses so I very much cannot support the industry here,” he lectures. “And I know what ‘kid foods’ are, Alana,” he says coolly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Name one,” she teased.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chicken tenders,” he notes, “they seem very </span>
  <em>
    <span>juvenile.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Hannibal carries the cutting board over to the stove, getting ready to sauté his ingredients. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alana’s laugh is bright and bounces off the walls. Her face is hysterical at the concept of Hannibal Lecter knowing what chicken tenders are. “Where’d you find out about that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been around in the states enough to know what they are, Dr. Bloom. I hate to inform you I don’t live under a rock.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bullshit. You’re lying to me,” Alana accuses. Her tone shooting holes through Hannibal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She watches his browbone arch up and a laugh get trapped at the base of his throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Caught me,” He said lightheartedly. “Will has informed me about that one. It’s his favorite food.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alana was practically dying. All semblance of professionalism crumbled beneath their feet at the concept of Will Graham’s favorite food being </span>
  <em>
    <span>chicken tenders</span>
  </em>
  <span> of all things. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re joking,” she wheezed. Cheeks flushed with slight tipsiness. Alana’s day drinking habit after sessions was the greatest of her faults as a psychiatrist. Not that Hannibal minded, he believed that unorthodox methods were more effective at getting into someone’s head. “Doctor, you did not just tell me that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal was laughing along with her, his was far calmer but it would be rude not to. “I know, for one of the most tortured men alive I guess he can find safety in </span>
  <em>
    <span>simple</span>
  </em>
  <span> foods.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Doctor Bloom finally composed herself, peeling up and off the stainless steel table beneath her. She doesn’t care to readjust her blouse which had come untucked from the waistband of her black pencil skirt after her fit. “Okay, maybe you will be a good dad. Humor and fatherly energy go hand in hand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Guests say I am a very good comic Though, I do not see it personally,” Hannibal answers. He reaches for handmade ceramic plates to his left as he plates his dish. Sliced meat first, then the cooked vegetables, followed by sauce off the bottom of the pan. “Lunch is served. Please, have your seat and we can discuss the Abigail situation further.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You really love that kid.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You could say that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The lunch is obviously delicious. It finishes nicely with the pricey wine and homebrewed beer the pair of psychiatrists have at hand. Everyone close to Hannibal has developed a stomach for his dishes, now not even questioning what’s in them. Or asking how his butchers keep up the demand, but nobody really wants to know how the sausage is made anyways. The two discussed logistics of Hannibal accompanying Alana on her trips to the hospital instead of the solo visits both of them take. He informs her about previous visits him and Will have taken to the hospital in the weeks since she got dropped off at her office. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see how well you do with her, run a couple of evals and then we can take Abigail to legal,” Alana states, poking her fork at the last wilted green on her plate. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal dabs at his mouth with a cloth, removing the oil from his lips. “Thank you, Alana. I really didn’t think I’d get a chance with this, but I am eternally grateful.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes a final gulp of her drink, lipstick smearing at the rim of the new glass. “Mm, no problem, you make a lot of good points. Normally I don’t let friendships bleed over into work, but it’s nice to have something to look forward to. Some </span>
  <em>
    <span>hope</span>
  </em>
  <span> around Abigail Hobbs. I think the whole Shrike case put some strain on everybody, you know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I agree with you, completely.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Knock, knock, knock</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That must be Doctor Bloom,” The nurse says, leaving a plate of food on the table beside Abigail’s bed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Therapy?” Abigail asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, therapy,” The nurse replies with a robotic smile. She walks over and answers the door. She was not expecting the unfamiliar figure looming over her, she let out a yelp.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is this Abigail Hobbs’ room?” Asks Hannibal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but she’s supposed to be seeing Alana Bloom, not,” the nurse halts with confusion. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Doctor Hannibal Lecter.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And he’s with me,” Alana adds, hidden behind Hannibal’s form. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The nurse is dumbfounded. “Of course, come in,” she stutters, letting the pair in and exiting the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail’s whole face lights up when she sees the two. “Miss Bloom!” she exclaims, putting her hands up to her face, the oxygen monitor still clipped on her finger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi, Abi, how are you feeling?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The girl ignores her. She ignores Alana in favor for greeting the other adult. “Hi, Hannibal,” she says giddily. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal’s stone-cold persona warms as he smiles and nods his head towards Abigail. “Hello,” he says lightly. Hannibal looks at Alana, silently asserting his confidence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her head follows both Alana and Hannibal as they pull up the chairs to her bedside. “And, I’m okay. I don’t like it here very much. It’s really boring,” She admits, pulling at the blanket over her lap. “The nurses never like to tell me I’m not going back home to Minnesota. I already know I can’t do that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I have something to ask you, that may fix your boredom,” Alana responds, her voice is hopeful. She leans in, never breaking the eye contact between her and Abigail. “That’s why we’re here with Doctor Lecter today.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail looks away perplexed. Her head whips quickly to look at Hannibal, who is listening in attentively. Her arm extends quickly with a point. “Are you going to be my therapist now?” she asks monotonously. The little pointer finger stayed confidently in the air, bridging the distance between her and the other psychiatrist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal’s rigid posture softens, his coat wrinkling as he slouched forward. “Eh, no not exactly,” he says delicately. “Doctor Bloom will still be your therapist.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Abigail’s face droops. “But therapy is secretly my favorite part of being here, and you’re funny,” She says plainly. “You’re really nice and good at understanding my feelings Miss Bloom- but,” The child stops talking for a second. Her eyebrows tent in shock, like she’s about to let out the biggest secret on earth. Her arm finally drops from putting Hannibal on the spot and claps over her mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong? Abigail, you can say it. It’s not going to hurt my feelings,” Alana says reassuringly. She leans over her clipboard of notes and extended her hand to brace the edge of the hospital bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Promise?” The girl replies, muffled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I promise,” The doctor chuckles. She bows her head downwards. “Lay it on me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail takes her hands off her mouth and leans forward all the way toward the bowing woman. She looks around to make sure the coast is clear for her groundbreaking confession. “You’re really good at therapy Miss Bloom, but you’re really,” she takes a big breath, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> bad at telling jokes,” Abigail whispers loudly. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is wavering. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alana shoots back up with a faux shocked face. “Abi!” She gasps dramatically. “You think I’m bad at jokes! Oh no!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Damnit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alana’s act wasn’t as comedic as she thought it was. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She really was bad at jokes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Abigail’s wavering voice evolved into a quivering lip accompanied by anxious breath. Her heart broke for the millionth time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh no, no no no, Abigail, don’t cry-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The air in the room stilled immediately. It seem as though time had dramatically slowed down. Every millisecond the first tear rolled its way down from her eye to the edge of her chin was excruciating. It has only been one time prior to this visit has Abigail ever cried during her therapy. Hannibal and Alana exchange looks, asking each other silently which of them it would be. They quietly agree on Hannibal, he swiftly gets out of his chair with a creak. Lecter walks over to the hospital bed and abruptly pulls Abigail to his chest. He holds onto her firmly, waiting for her to release tension and lean into him. A surgically steady hand presses into her back, and for once the stoic doctor radiated nothing but warmth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shh sh sh, it’s alright, Abigail. You did not actually hurt Doctor Bloom,” Hannibal shushes. He feels Abigail’s arms attempt to wrap around him, this must’ve been the first hug she’s received in weeks. Hannibal let’s Abigail stay in the embrace until she stopped sobbing and she relaxed, pulling away naturally.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the doctor lets go of his soon to be child, there are tear stains over his tie and the side of his shirt. If this were any other patient, any other person for that matter, he’d be severely annoyed with this. However, for once, Hannibal didn’t care. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alana documents her behavior and then resumes her statement. “Well, that’s out of the way. But if it’s okay with you, we’re here to ask how you feel about letting Hannibal </span>
  <em>
    <span>adopt</span>
  </em>
  <span> you. If you are comfortable enough with him.” She watches Abigail rub at her eyes, now red and puffy from shedding some tears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hannibal?” Abigail asks weakly, pulling up her blanket. Her thumbs brush over the hem repeatedly, much like she’d do with her scarf, which was hanging on a coat hook by the door. The scar on her neck was a pronounced red against her translucent skin. “Well, I said that I liked him and he’s funny. Not in the jokes way, like in a the way he talks is what’s funny.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal covered his offense behind a blank stare. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why do people keep making fun of his accent?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But you said he’s adopting me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s right.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Like he’s going to be my new dad?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you would like to see me as a father figure above just a legal guardian,” Hannibal says promptly. His hands are folded over his lap and is not looking at anything in particular. “If you would like to know why I feel as though I would be fit to replace your father I can tell you. I must warn you, it may cause some distress.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Again, silence in the room grows louder than the beeping of the health monitors hooked up to Abigail. The psychiatrists waited for her response patiently, ready to accept any outcome. “I’m not scared, so, you can tell me,” She says. Her eyes light up with curiosity, anticipating a story. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal sighs and shifts in his seat. “Well, I asked if you remembered me from the crime scene because I saved your life. I followed Will Graham into your house when your father went to cut your throat.” A lump began forming in his throat, the graphic memories playing in front of his eyes. “When Will had to call back up from the rest of the police, he handed you to me and I carried you into the ambulance, holding at your neck to stop you from bleeding out until paramedics could stabilize your condition.” Alana has never heard Hannibal speak like that, his voice never faltered quite like it did just then. Deep rooted pain from within was bleeding into his words. “I feel as though </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> must continue to keep you safe from now on.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It took a few seconds for Abigail to process Hannibal’s words. Her lips parted to say something, but no words came out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay if you need time to think, alright,” Alana reassures. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s really brave of you, Hannibal. Thank you for saving me, that’s so cool,” Abigail muses. She wears another innocent smile on her face and her posture denoted absolute confidence in her choices. “And if it means I don’t have to be hooked up to,” She looks over at the monitors to her left, “To those things forever, I think that’s a kinda good idea.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal is wearing another prideful grin on his face. He’s won. Alana’s laughter fades into the distance, the only thing he can feel is utter success. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>lmao i hate my writing already</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Evening</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’re the papers for, Hannibal?” Will asks, just now turning his attention away from the seemingly never ending shelves of books. He mutters something about mycelium while searching for a specific book. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Adoption forms,” The doctor says, eyes locked on the paperwork below. Wire-rimmed reading glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will turns on the rung of the ladder. It takes a couple tries of rerunning Hannibal’s words through his head before he could correctly comprehend them. Even then, the thought of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hannibal Lecter</span>
  </em>
  <span> filling out papers for adoption pet or child felt wrong on so many levels. “What are you- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who</span>
  </em>
  <span> are you adopting?” He asks, astonished. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal sets his pen down with a satisfying click against the lacquered wood of the desk. “Abigail Hobbs.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shock nearly causes Will to fall off the sliding ladder. “I know you didn’t just tell me that, doctor. You aren’t actually adopting Abigail Hobbs, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, it appears I just have, Will,” Hannibal teased. “I must be a stronger father figure for her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> are her father figures now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hold on, hold on, hold on. We?” Will started, his head beginning to spin as he descended the ladder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, after all, you did admit to me your feelings of obligations to her. You spent nights in her hospital room, hoping she’d keep holding onto her life. And I believe it will absolve you of your guilt for killing Garret Jacob Hobbs; protecting Abigail from harm instead of causing that it,” Hannibal explained. His words are thorough and intentional. He stands up from his desk and walks over to Will, who was bracing himself on the ladder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will takes in a breath, enjoying the silence between the two before answering. He hated how good of a point Hannibal had just made, his feelings about Abigail were certainly protective and nearly parental. “Are you implying that you want me to just move in with you and just live out a nuclear family with you and Abigail? I’m not quite sure I like the implications of that, Hannibal.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal stifles a laugh. “Unless that is what you want, that was not my intention at all. I plan to keep Abigail here with me, I would be her only legal guardian as of now. Your role is whatever you’d like it to be, all I’m asking is you provide her some paternal support. And I would even consider it a landmark of what historians will record as our friendship,” The psychiatrist lectures. His hand is now placed firmly on Will’s shoulder, grounding him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Both men are now searching for a book on the lower shelves in Hannibal’s study. “Are you sure you’ll be a good dad?” Will asked, still in disbelief. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure that the standards of a good father for Abigail Hobbs are fairly low, but I’m confident.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I guess,” Will chuckled. “I’m sure it’s not difficult to beat a serial killing cannibal for a father.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A smile works its way onto Hannibal’s face. Only he understands the absolute and utter irony of Will’s words. “Precisely.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal was </span>
  <em>
    <span>suspiciously</span>
  </em>
  <span> busy when it came time for Abigail to be brought home. Will was still on the job but managed to get Jack to let him off the hook for a bit. He’d be lying to say that excitement wasn’t bubbling up in his chest when he finally would be making his final trip to that hospital. He would be in a sense, picking up his child. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He went to go check in at the front desk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will Graham, visiting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Abigail Hobbs? Again, Mr. Graham?” The clerk sighed. He tapped away at his computer. “Abigail has a visitor, but you didn’t make this appointment, it’s under-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hannibal Lecter,” Will continued, mildly annoyed. “I’m picking her up for him, he couldn’t make it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I see, well, you’re good to go Mr. Graham.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will gave the desk clerk an affirmative nod and fervently made his way to the elevator. The directions to Abigail’s room was muscle memory by now. </span>
  <em>
    <span>8th floor, pediatric ward, room 405.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The special agent slipped past a couple nurses, giving them nothing more than a polite smile and maybe a “Pardon me” on occasion. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He rapped his knuckles on the door a couple times to no response. Will paused a second to just go for it and open the door. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Empty</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, there’s no way that this room was empty. No bed, no nurses, no bubbly little girl ready to come home to her surrogate dad’s house.  This was definitely a fucking problem. Will immediately fell victim to his reflexes and rushed out the door with a militant urgency. He was after all, an FBI agent. He ran out the door scrambling for the nearest nurse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where is Abigail Hobbs?” He asked, doing his best to keep his voice down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is she not in her room?” The nurse replied, annoyed by Will’s seemingly stupid question. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Will snapped. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They took her for some tests,” Another nurse tipped. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will’s blood was boiling, the flow of his blood thrumming in his ears. “Tests? What tests? She was supposed to be discharged today! I was taking her home to her adoptive father-” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Calm down Will</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Will stops his flow of words, aware he was causing a scene. “Where do they run tests ‘round here?” The anger forcing out that drawl again. He was already under stress, he didn’t need this on top of it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The slightly fearful brigade of nurses pointed him down the hall. When he began to run he was told to stop, and that it wasn’t allowed for family members. Will stopped on his heels, boots screeching on the linoleum floors. His hand immediately scrambled at his belt for his badge before flashing it to the nurse. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m special agent Will Graham, FBI, and I’m technically still on duty,” He said, trying to stop himself from shouting.  Will was immediately permitted to go and he decided to run. His heart was beating out of his chest and his vision became tunneled. He was breathing raggedly, he just had to get Abigail. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will’s phone rang and his free hand slapped at his phone inside his pocket, the other now gripping his pistol. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Jack.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stammets knows about Abigail Hobbs.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know. I’m actually on that, right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He wants to bury her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack hung up before Will could process his last sentence. The flat dial tone ringing in his ears, covering up the pounding of his feet as he sped down a stairway. Will stopped breathlessly when he made his way into an empty hall of elevators. One to his left opens slowly when a man emerged, pushing a bed, the patient hooked up to an IV. He had on staffwear but his face, thinning hair, dry, thin lips, tortoiseshell glasses. Will has seen this face before, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eldon Stammets.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And the patient upon further inspection, was Abigail. She was still wearing the clothes Alana had bought her, purple scarf still covering her neck. Her sleeve had been rolled up where a tube and needle stuck out of a prominent vein. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop, FBI.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Will Graham, I’ve read all about you on TattleCrime,” Stammets said cooly, resting on the bed. The son of a bitch had a demented smile on his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let go of Abigail,” Will said, holding his gun with both hands. “I am supposed to be taking her home right now.” A bead of sweat drips from his hairline back into the collar of his flannel. Will tried not to shake with anxiety, but his stance was faltering slightly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just want to let her connect in a way humans can’t-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I said let her go!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A warning shot was fired straight into Stammets’ arm. The killer stumbled back and backed into the steel plated elevator door. His blood streaked down the metal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me, what’s in that IV,” Will said, voice breaking. He pointed the gun at Stammets, threatening another shot. His vision nearly going white with anger. “Tell me so I can get her home, now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, I just want her to connect, you both can connect!” Eldon hissed, desperately grabbing at his wounded arm. His eyes pleaded for Will’s mercy, which he wouldn’t receive. “It’s just saline and an anesthetic, she will wake up fine in a few hours. I haven’t put anything in her that would induce comatose,” He breathed out, struggling. “ Just pull the needle from her arm and cover it with a bandage, you can take her home fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will called for security other assistance. When the officers arrived he explained to the guards his </span>
  <em>
    <span>situation</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He could finally take the child home. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I promise I'll get to the song eventually pfft, not yet</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Midnight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hannibal and his top notch (extremely questionable at points) parenting and the lullaby I based the entire au off of</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Again, I don't own the song at all it's just BB's Theme from the game Death Stranding.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hannibal opens the front door of his home to Will holding a sleeping child.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry I’m late we had a little <em> incident </em> at the hospital,” Will delivered, his head tilted down timidly. </p><p> </p><p>The doctor gave him a nod, mouth left speechless. His arms braced at the doorframe as he watched Will stomp up the steps. He noted the beat up sedan behind him, outlined in orange from the street lamps. A weak snow started to set in, flecks of white attaching to the ends of Will’s curls. </p><p> </p><p>Lecter turned his body, allowing the other man inside. He picked up on Will’s labored breathing and the clear look of unconsciousness on Abigail's face. Hannibal followed Will into the heart of his home, the study as Will laid the girl down onto the long couch sitting at the northmost point of the room. He sets down a pink bag at the foot of the edge of the chair, its zipper hanging half-open. </p><p> </p><p>“Will what happened?” Hannibal couldn’t help but inquire. There’s a sense of shock behind his words. He had been expecting Will to get back much earlier in the day, hence the now cold family lunch that waited on the kitchen table. </p><p> </p><p>Will pinched the bridge of his nose. “That Stammets guy got to her. He wanted to <em> bury </em> her and I got there before he could do anything,” he started, abandoning the heavy corduroy jacket that cloaked him onto the floor. “He said that she’s just out on anesthesia, but she hasn’t woken up for at least three hours. He had it in an IV drip.”</p><p> </p><p>The adults gave each other urgent and desperate looks. Hannibal’s eyes were wide, an overwhelming influx of emotions he learned to suppress pulled at the corners of his mouth. His sentences began to unravel into less structured phrases. “Will, my desk. Third drawer, left side, there should be sachets of ammonium salts.”</p><p> </p><p>Wordlessly, Will complied. He was crouched down behind the furniture carelessly yanking at the drawer. His vision is immediately overwhelmed by the bountiful stocks of medicines he had no idea about. Dark glass bottles, white pills, powders, all arranged by height. His eyes spot the capsules of smelling salts in a lidless glass jar. He takes a couple and tosses them to Hannibal, who catches them perfectly. </p><p> </p><p><em> Smelling salts. </em> Will was rather familiar with them from his time as a cop, used to wake unconscious people on scenes. He knows the feeling. The immediate hellfire that rips through the sinuses, causing grown men to cry, basically waking the dead. Will looked concernedly as Hannibal was readying himself to administer the retched product to his six-year-old daughter. <em> Their six-year-old daughter. </em> He shook his head, dismissing any bad thoughts, he wasn’t the doctor here, why should he trust Hannibal’s judgement?</p><p> </p><p>A popping noise filled the study as Hannibal cracked the capsule right below Abigail’s nose. Will winced at the noise as Hannibal discarded the plastic on the floor next to her bag. The doctor held his breath as he waited for a characteristic twitch in the girl’s face. Will raised his eyebrows in amusement. And it wasn’t long before the child started coughing, strained voice hanging at the edge of her breaths. Her eyes opened to Hannibal frowning down at her, concerned. Tears collecting in her ducts obscured the image.</p><p> </p><p>Abigail instinctively rubbed at her nose, trying to quell the discomfort. “What’s happening,” she cries weakly, voice dry. Hannibal and Will observed the former’s daughter as she cried. Hannibal kneeling by her side, Will across the room. “Hannibal…?” </p><p> </p><p>“Abigail,” Lecter returned. His voice exudes a softness Will has never heard before. The older man places his hand steadily on the girl’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>The frown on Hannibal’s face deepens. “Your nose?”</p><p> </p><p>Abigail nods, lips trembling, and eyes shining with tears. Her cheeks were fair and pink, and her hair was coming undone, loose strands sticking out everywhere from the three strand braid secured at the back of her head.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ll be okay, Abigail. The burning should go away in a few minutes, okay,” Will reassured. The FBI agent startled himself even, the softness in his voice was another foreign feeling. </p><p> </p><p>“Will,” she whispers. Her hands fly immediately to her scarf, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. “What happened?” Abigail asks weakly. </p><p> </p><p>Will sighs, shoulders dropping back against the wall. “It’s, a really long story, but you’re home now, Abigail.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you know where you are,” Hannibal asks. He lets Abigail’s eyes digest their surroundings. She doesn’t look lost, just overwhelmed. The girl averts her gaze back to Hannibal, she sniffles before her mouth falls open to answer.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m at your office, in your house, Hannibal.”</p><p> </p><p>“Very good.” </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Will noted the definite distress wearing on Hannibal’s face the entirety of dinner. For once, the man served a fairly simplistic meal, and one Will appreciated more than anything he’d ever been presented in this room. <em> Chicken tenders </em>. Homemade of course, nothing compared to the true comfort of microwaved frozen goodness, but Hannibal was not a bad chef. His eyes flicked up to Abigail, seated at the right hand of her surrogate father. All Will sees is brightness, one unfitting for the severe decor and dark color scheme. Artificial purples and manufactured pinks contrasted the backrest of the chair which her head was not high enough to surpass. Abigail smiled contently, ketchup pooled at the corners of her lips as she took tiny bites out of the golden tender. </p><p> </p><p>His eyes shifted back up to the older man beside him. He watched Abigail eat, his own plate left clean. At his hand a glass of wine (he gave Abigail water in a short glass) and his finger tapped lightly on the table. His eyes were fixated on his new daughter, analyzing her even. The worry that reflected of his visage had come from the fact that he <em> reheated </em> the meal. Not serving people food fresh off the stove was apparently the chief of his concern, and not the unpreparedness for children he refused to admit to. Will brushed his hands off on the cloth napkin that was placed sloppily over his left knee. He brought it up to the table cloth, setting it by his empty plate. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s getting late, I think it’s best I head out,” he said with a crooked smile, a semblance of good manners.</p><p> </p><p>“So soon?” Hannibal replied quickly, rising to Will’s eye level.</p><p> </p><p>“I gotta go before the roads get bad again.” The FBI agent squinted slightly, trying to see if Hannibal picked up that after the last incident a few weeks ago, he would <em> not </em> be accepting anymore rides. Will gave another tight lipped smile and turned around, snagging his coat off the back of the chair.</p><p> </p><p>“Bye, Will,” Abigail added. <em> Dammit he has a soft spot for kids </em>. Will rotated on his heels to face the girl once again. It was quite the enigma how children could keep up a genuine smile after going through a fit of sorrow. He crouched slightly and reached across the table, offering his hand for a high-five. Her hand collides with his, sloppy and uncoordinated, but his heart immediately liquifies. He had never felt a hand so small compared to his and entirely unblemished. Her hands have yet to callus from years of work, her fingers perfectly straight, no bends from decades of holding a pen. Will indulged himself in a brief chuckle, unable to contain it as he high-fived her. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal is smiling too. Life stirs in his irises as they light up fondly. The tenderness of his expression contradicted the natural harshness of his face, angularity present in almost all its features. He watched Will and Abigail intently, joyously even. <em> What could he be planning? </em> </p><p> </p><p>“Shall I escort you to the door?” Hannibal asked, courteously.</p><p> </p><p>“No thanks, Doctor.”</p><p> </p><p>“I insist.” Hannibal always insisted on following Will out. “Abigail? Are you done eating?”</p><p> </p><p>The girl nods her head energetically.</p><p> </p><p>“Very well, let’s bid Will a safe travel, alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p> </p><p>Will listened in to the Doctor and his daughter from the doorway heading out the kitchen, he wore a content smile. He doesn’t really know why he felt the need to have a grin on his face, but he does. And he waited with that new found contentedness for the gentle footsteps that ghosted behind him. </p><p> </p><p>Nothing.</p><p> </p><p>He glanced over his shoulder to see two things: Abigail tugging on the pricey jacket at Hannibal’s back, and Hannibal turning around immediately. The old man stooped slightly, never taking his eyes away from his daughter. Will doesn’t hear the exchange whatsoever, just some straining shortly after he averted his gaze back to the corridor in front of him. </p><p> </p><p><em> There they are. </em> Will recognized the clicking of Hannibal’s dress shoes on the hard wood and that was his cue to start walking again. Silence, Will thought, was always deafening, but not in Hannibal’s house. The silence he felt there was placid, never quite as empty as the silence back home or in his classroom. It was hauntingly lively, warm and consuming. The echoing footsteps, Abigail’s high, whistling breaths, the crackling of a distant fire from the study. It wasn’t silence at all, just wordless. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks for the company, Doctor Lecter, and again, sorry for my lateness,” Will breathed.</p><p> </p><p>“Not to worry, Will. Until we see each other again,” Hannibal returned. Will twisted once again, to get a look at the man behind him. His lids flutter with surprise, not expecting to see the Abigail perched on the psychiatrist’s shoulder. Hannibal’s arm was wrapped around both of her legs like a seat belt around her mid-shins. His suit was getting wrinkled under her weight and sullied from, whatever lived on a child’s shoes, but it didn’t seemed like he really cared. </p><p> </p><p>Will exhaled another breathless laugh at the spectacle, and gave the girl a wave. She waved back, now towering over him. Hannibal ducked, contorting slightly to undo the handle of the door giving way to the lobby and the rest of the way out. Icy air rushed in, drowning the placating warmth of the house. He gave Will another courtesy nod and flashed a smile. Barely exposing the edge of his teeth behind the curvature of the upper lip. The girl on his shoulders swayed forward to keep her balance, glassy eyes staring into Will’s shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>Will filed out the door, turning his head to see the almost monstrously tall silhouette waving him goodbye in the doorway before finally walking out the house. Out of the belly of the beast.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal shut the door and stepped back slightly. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to put you down now, is that okay?” He asked.</p><p> </p><p>Abigail hummed as she thought. Her body swayed side to side and what remained of her braid brushed the side of his head. Hannibal restricted himself from the mild discomfort of the feeling, he was far too amused with her processes. Children were so literal with their actions, they had a process for thinking, easy to read what they were thinking about. He found himself so ensnared by her naivety that he could honestly be happy letting her think for a little. He needed to nurture her mind, preserve it.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, you can put me down now,” Abigail concluded, tone rising confidently.</p><p> </p><p>“Very well.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal temporarily tightened his grip on her shins before swinging her down, being careful not to hurt her. Now cradled in his elbows, Abigail makes eye contact with him. He looks back, again with new fondness, and he sets her down by his side again. He gave her a pat on the head before walking away. </p><p>“Hey, Hannibal?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Abigail.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where are you going?”</p><p> </p><p>“To attend to the dishes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” the girl paused. “Can I watch you?”</p><p> </p><p><em> Shit </em> . Hannibal froze in place, the question caught him off guard. Sure, he did have dishes to wash and cookware to put away, but he also had a very particular <em> cow </em> to butcher. His bottom lip stuttered slightly, extremely conflicted on what he was to tell Abigail. A yes, and he’d subject her to the fact that both of her fathers were murderous serial-killing cannibals. Based on their first meeting post-recovery Abigail had fully digested and <em> joked </em> about Garret Jacob Hobbs’ habits, but that was something for another day. Perhaps he truly wasn’t equipped for the prospect of fatherhood.</p><p> </p><p>“Not tonight. Please, feel free to roam around my study, be careful not to go through the drawers, and I will be back in about forty-five minutes,” he reported, a lump forming in his throat at the undeniable awkwardness.</p><p> </p><p>Abigail craned her neck slightly and gave her father a quizzical look. “Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s nothing very interesting for youths such as yourself, and I don’t believe you’d be enthralled with seeing me wash plates.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, but walking around this room seems lame too.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Okay, fair enough </em>.</p><p> </p><p>“And I’ve seen my mom and dad do plenty dishes. And I was there when my dad let me watch him skin Miss Anderson. She was my old babysitter, maybe you know that though. You know a lot, Hannibal.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s heart dropped. Such heavy words delivered so lightly left him speechless. <em> What the fuck was he going to do now? </em> He blinked hard, clearing his mind, turning back around he looked at Abigail, the little girl coming only to his waist level. He sucked the back of his teeth and finalized his decision. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, I suppose you can accompany me if you’d like. But I have something else to do that I will allow you to watch. You must tell absolutely nobody, not Will, not Doctor Bloom, nobody. Do you understand me, Abigail?” He rationalized that maybe speaking in a menacing tone would let the girl back off long enough for him to complete his butchering, albeit expedited. </p><p> </p><p>“I promise, Hannibal,” Abigail followed, no hesitation. She skipped over to his side, smile ever-present. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal would never admit to himself how taken aback he was by her lack of hesitance. He never considered how someone this fresh in the world could best him so easily. It was all genuine too. (At least he thinks it is, or Garret Jacob Hobbs taught a six-year-old how to manipulate like the best of them.) </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“See this, Abigail?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Her shoes tapped against the granite counter top, eyes trained on the table in front of her. “What do you do with that?” she asked, pointing her finger at the hammer left of the corpse. </p><p> </p><p>“To break the ribs, access the heart and lungs. Fracture the sternum, than separate the bone,” Hannibal instructed, pulling his hands from the abdominal cavity. “But first, we must preserve the less muscular organs to prevent them from spoiling. Liver, kidneys, and?” He quizzed.</p><p> </p><p>Abigail looked around for a second, “Brain.”</p><p> </p><p>“Very good.”</p><p> </p><p>Abigail watched, unfazed entirely by Hannibal conducting his work. It felt almost like an abuse of her naivety, yet, going back on his words would be objectively more difficult. Instilling this sense of security was essential if he were to keep his dietary habit without killing her. She watched him more like a student, less like a witness. Every layer of this random woman peeled back meticulously. </p><p> </p><p>“And we’re done,” Hannibal stated, “Abigail?”</p><p> </p><p>No response. Just the creaking vinyl on his body and the natural hum of the house. Hannibal directed his attention back to Abigail, who had slumped down against the countertops. Her breaths whistled quietly. Her face was completely still, graceful. Hannibal turned sharply to view the electronic clock at the head of his stove. <em> 1:56 </em> it read in glowing blue lights.</p><p> </p><p>The doctor sighed deeply. It was far too late for a young child to be up, she needed sleep. He frowned, discontent with his impulsiveness, allowing her to watch him take apart the receptionist (and in the kitchen nonetheless). Hannibal swiftly swept up this week’s cuts and stacked them in the high-capacity freezer. Not a second to waste. Soon came the discarding of the remnants of the body in the incinerator at the center of the basement. Then, the shedding of the plastic second skin, and leaving the cleanup for later Hannibal.</p><p> </p><p>He ascended the steps easily, jumping over every other stair. It would be terrible for Abigail’s spine if he left her to sleep on the granite any longer. He checked the time once again. <em> 2:25. </em> Hannibal tutted quietly as worry began to age his face once again. He felt his hair begin to flop from its stiff style of the day before. He picked up  Abigail, hastily carrying her through the labyrinth of his house. He had not yet prepared her room, but his seemed adequate for now. Her weight felt entirely different in his arms than it did on his shoulder. He felt inclined to be extra careful with supporting her neck as she was not in the correct consciousness to do that herself.  </p><p> </p><p>The doorknob is stubborn. It takes a second before it gives, pardoning Hannibal and Abigail into the room that lay behind it. The air is welcoming, warm and scented. Hannibal gently places the sleeping child on his bed, her body sinking into the cool crimson sheets. She snored gently as Hannibal pulled the matching duvet over her body, swallowing her form entirely. He smiles at her in the dark, content. Satisfied that she was now somewhere safer, somewhere he could protect her. This was the start of his redemption arc of childcare, doing what he couldn’t for <em> her. </em> </p><p> </p><p>The night only grew quieter still, and yet so much to do. Hannibal had to attend to himself, a day’s work left him undoubtedly uncomfortable and the state of progress he had left the house in was uncomfortable on his conscience. Abigail’s belongings on the floor of his study, bare traces of blood on the kill suit, dishes left on the drying rack and not the cupboards. The feeling was tormenting him. Lecter took in another grounding breath, convincing himself that rest was far more pertinent. </p><p> </p><p>Sleeping in day-old clothes was a sin. A filth that Hannibal could never bring himself to do unless it was entirely necessary. It didn’t matter how late it was, every soap in the steaming shower, every perfumed grooming product right after, was absolutely necessary. He emerged from the restroom, a towel hanging modestly from his waist. A chilled air traverses his back, regulating his body temperature as he walked his way over to the closet. He notes how aware he was of Abigail’s presence in his room, even in sleep, it was hard to miss. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal flicks at the switch by the door of the closet. The room floods with low light, just enough to distinguish the colors and fabric texture of every garment. He ducks to the lower shelf, retrieving a clean set of clothes. He drops the towel into the basket by the door and changes swiftly. The doctor barely gets the sweater over his head before he senses a change in the room’s energy. <em> Abigail. </em></p><p> </p><p>Gentle whistles of breath evolved quickly into troubled sighs. Hannibal jogged over to the bed side, watching her face twist with discomfort. <em> Nightmares. </em> Hannibal was accustomed to soothing nightmares. Simply put, he attracted those afflicted with them all throughout his life. Still hesitant, he placed his hand at her cheek, brushing his fingers gingerly across the pale skin.  His finger prevents a rebel tear from falling down her face. At this rate, she was soon to wake. </p><p> </p><p>Abigail’s screams rung sharply off the walls of the room. Her face was frozen in a mortified expression. Strained tears drew agonizing paths against her skin and he mouth opened too wide to be comfortable.</p><p>She threw her head forward, caught in Hannibal’s arm. She cried for a second before pulling away, glassy eyes meeting his. He pressed his other hand at the top of her back, feeling her breathing steady slowly under his hand. </p><p> </p><p>“A nightmare, Abigail?”</p><p> </p><p>He feels her nod, letting her head shift from his elbow to his stomach. Messy tears smear across the red fabric, sinking through to his skin. Hannibal bit his tongue, preventing himself from probing too much, asking what tortured her little mind just then. </p><p> </p><p>When Abigail pulled away, she rubbed her eyes, drying them in his sheets. She looked awfully awake for the hour.</p><p> </p><p>“Hannibal,” she whispered hoarsely. “What if I can’t go back to sleep?”</p><p> </p><p>“Do not worry about it,” he shushed.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal frowned. He looked down at his child with pity, a stab at his heart. An ache that he hasn’t felt for decades, but it still hurt all the same. He looked at her silently a little more before climbing into his bed. Admittedly, it was something someone of his age wasn’t accustomed to doing, especially when he lived alone. He sat himself parallel to Abigail. He adjusted the blanket once more, covering the two of them evenly. Abigail looked at him worriedly, still afraid that she may never fall back asleep. Hannibal motioned his hand, instructing her to lay her head against his chest. </p><p> </p><p>“The beating of a parent’s heart is known to soothe children to sleep, the comforting sense extending even into adulthood. Of course, I am not one of your biological parents, however, the pace of mine should suffice,” Hannibal lamented. </p><p> </p><p>Abigail hums slightly before nestling into the dip of his collarbone, arm supporting her back. “I think you’re going to be an okay dad, Hannibal.”</p><p> </p><p>He smiles warmly, the feeling blooming outwards from his chest. “Only if you think so.”</p><p> </p><p>“I do,” she whispers. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal rubs circles into her back with his thumb. He hums a song, a lullaby he composed in his youth that he used to sing to Mischa after she too was woken rudely by night terrors.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “ See the sunset </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The day is ending </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Let that yawn out </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There's no pretending </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I will hold you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And protect you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So let love warm you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Till the morning </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I'll stay with you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> By your side </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Close your tired eyes </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I'll wait, and soon </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I'll see your smile in a dream </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And I </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Won't wake before you go </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And I'll </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Still be your heartbeat </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Feel the raindrops </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The dawn without you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Watch that star rise </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Eons without you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I'll stay with you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> In your mind every single day </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I'll wait and soon </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We're stranded on the beach </em>
</p><p>
  <em> In our dream </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We part too soon </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But in our love </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There's a truth to find </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The end is new </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And tomorrow we must reach far </em>
</p><p>
  <em> To be heard </em>
</p><p>
  <em> See the sunset </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The day is ending </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Let your heart sigh </em>
</p><p>
  <em> See the sunset </em>
</p><p>
  <em> See the sunset </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And I'm gonna stay with you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But I won't stray away from the truth </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And I am still living two worlds and you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> See the sunset.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Now firmly asleep from the song, dark lashes resting against her cheeks. The doctor could finally call it a night. He presses a chaste kiss to the top of her head and closes his own eyes. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Goodnight.  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Consistent verb tense? Don't know her. Anyways, that was really long for my liking (could be considered a chapter and a half honestly), but here it is.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Morning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A (literal) taste of domesticity, served with coffee.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lazy Saturdays were Abigail's absolute favorite. Suffice to say it would be any kid’s favorite, but with a dad like hers, it would warrant that.  </p><p> </p><p>“Abigail!” Hannibal called, sticking his head through the door. He’d look to see her, feigning sleep. Her foot kicked the blanket, yet not soon enough to go unnoticed. “<em> Abigail Lecter </em> I know you’re awake, come downstairs, please.” The name, only a week into the whole fatherhood thing and Hannibal was far too comfortable saying it. He said it proudly every time, knowing that Garrett Jacob Hobbs was only a ghost haunting her memory, not her father. <em> He was her father now, nobody else could claim that from him. </em> </p><p> </p><p>He stared at her, face stiff as ever, enough for her to feel it. He steps closer and closer into the room. His shadow creeping over her and blocking the warm rays of the sun that danced so elegantly over the forms of her face. She wore a mischievous grin, her eyelid barely parting, then shutting, thinking she was as covert as can be. </p><p> </p><p>“Abigail,” Hannibal warned again, standing fully over her. “I saw that.” </p><p> </p><p>His empty threat only resolved in giggles. Her face lit up in all good humor and high spirits. It was that same laugh that he first heard months ago now during their first visit. The doctor leaned back, satisfied. The girl relented her charade, rising under the sheet, zombie-like. She let out a gentle yawn before swinging her legs over the bed, jumping down. Hannibal was hoping to arrange one of the guest rooms into hers as soon as he could, but for now, letting Abigail sleep in his was fine. </p><p> </p><p>He would never like to admit that it felt much safer that she stay in his room, even if only a few more days. Something deep inside Hannibal Lecter enjoyed singing his daughter to sleep every night, combing her hair, reading to her (Six-year-olds hate Dante) and other parental things. <em> A slow uncovering of the beating of a heart once pronounced dead.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Go dress yourself and come down for breakfast.” Hannibal directed. He allowed Abigail a taste of independence, allowing her to dress herself in the clothes Alana had purchased for her previously. The fabric was tackily printed, but sturdy enough to survive the trials of childhood and cheap enough to toss when outgrown. Hannibal sought to dress her in finer garments, but fineries and children don’t mix. This Saturday she had selected herself striped leggings and a glittery crewneck long sleeved-shirt. Around her neck was the characteristic scarf, faded and fraying from months of chewing. She sloppily stuck a magenta barrette into unbrushed hair. </p><p> </p><p>It seemed as though the steps were almost too high for her to go down. Naturally, an old house had its flaws and this was one of them. Nonetheless, Abigail made it down these unusually steep stairs to the kitchen, abundantly bright. </p><p> </p><p>“Good morning, Abigail.”</p><p> </p><p>“Morning, Hannibal.” Abigail was entirely unused to calling the doctor any traditional parental nicknames. Not that he minded, of course, but he knew it would lead to some further issues. “What’d you make today?”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s face quickly morphed into that rehearsed smile he wore so often. “Breakfast scramble, your favorite.” He laid out three plates on the table, the white ceramic glowing in the sunlight. “Come, sit, before it gets cold.”  </p><p> </p><p>Obediently, Abigail nodded and skipped over to her usual seat at Hannibal’s right hand. Lecter pulled the chair back for her and allowed her to sit. She stared at the face of the plate in front of her excitedly. The smells coming off the <em> hearty </em> breakfast were nothing short of seraphic. </p><p> </p><p>Abigail eyed the plate across from her. “Is that for Will?” she asked.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal hummed as he plated the food from the pan onto a communal serving tray. “Very observant, yes, it is.” </p><p> </p><p>The formalities of a patient/doctor relationship between Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham only waned within their acquaintanceship. What was once the occasional dinner after therapy had swelled into full days off together. Jack Crawford had grown lenient with Will’s hours, letting him go back to teaching as dramatic killings had suddenly slowed down.  </p><p> </p><p>A characteristic knock at the door and Hannibal was already set on answering it. He opened the door before Will could even knock again.</p><p> </p><p>“Good morning, Will.”</p><p> </p><p>“Morning, Doctor Lecter,” Will greeted casually. His eyes were dull with lack of sleep and the pallor of his skin further indicated that. He stood, as usual with his head held down, the collar of his flannel curling at the ends. His hand occupied itself with the worn strap of his bag of papers. </p><p> </p><p>Unusually bright in the morning, Will stepped in and made his way to the kitchen. Of course, the silent click of Hannibal’s footsteps behind him. The FBI profiler took his seat, as usual just opposite Abigail. He watched her fiddle absentmindedly with an adult sized fork. The utensil, while as daintily crafted as the rest of Hannibal’s kitchenware, looked awkward in comparison to her hand.</p><p> </p><p>Abigail dropped the fork when she saw Will in front of her. <em> Guilty. </em> Her face crumpled in slightly, her mouth pressed shut.</p><p> </p><p>Will smiled at her. He gave her a nod and telling eyebrow raise. “I’m not telling your dad, don’t worry,” he whispered. The words “your dad” felt wrong in his mouth. Not even Abigail herself had accustomed to calling the doctor anything but Hannibal.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Abigail giggled, returning his nod with an exaggerated wink. </p><p> </p><p>Will smiled along with her. He felt the lingering of Hannibal’s eyes on them, an all seeing look from over his shoulder. Will ignored that. </p><p> </p><p>Only moments later did Hannibal come into the dining room, several trays lining his arms. Steaming food, fresh bread, delicately cut fruit, everything restaurants wished they served. He takes extra care with setting things down, avoiding hitting Abigail. Will pays attention to how his sleeves were rolled up and how he didn’t bother with waistcoats on days off. He watches how the apron twists against Hannibal’s torso. His hair is worn loose, Will watches as it falls just over his eye. He’s beautiful in the blinding sunlight that poured in from the kitchen windows. </p><p> </p><p>Everything about it, the domesticity didn’t seem quite right with Will. This was a new kind of comfort, not the dark, suffocating comfort he had felt before. It was something homely, no obvious deviance or suspicion in the air. <em> It was almost impressive. </em> Abigail and Hannibal Lecter, the father and daughter duo. No longer Abigail Hobbs, child of the Minnesota Shrike, famous for almost dying and Hannibal Lecter, fearsome, pretentious, Lithuanian psychiatrist for the FBI. It was them and Will Graham, who admittedly was no different from how he was before Hannibal’s decision to adopt. An outlier, a guest. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal returned to the dining room for a final time, two scalding cups of black coffee in his left hand, a rocks glass of orange juice in his right. He sets them down when he takes his seat between Will and Abigail. The girl politely accepts her juice, grabbing the glass with both hands, bringing it to her side with a wobbly grip. Hannibal slides Will’s mug to his side. </p><p> </p><p>“An extra strong Colombian roast. Hopefully it should help with clarity as you grade those reports,” Hannibal delivered. Will looked up through the steam rising from his mug to see Hannibal’s relaxed grin. </p><p> </p><p>“Sounds perfect,” Will returned. He said that quite a bit. Everything <em> sounded </em> perfect when it came from Hannibal. Will didn’t care what any of this fancy food was, where it came from, or what it did. So it was natural he’d trust Hannibal’s judgement since it was evident he cared so much. Will brought the cup to his lips, accepting the burning liquid into his mouth. It didn’t matter how pretentious Hannibal sounded, he had good taste. The coffee was warm and robust, a full flavor all its own without anything else. It was a great contrast from the instant shit Will had on the drive from Wolf Trap. “It’s delicious, Doctor,” Will beamed. </p><p> </p><p>The Doctor always denied compliments despite having a smug grin on his face. “I’m glad you like it, but you shouldn’t attribute its greatness to me.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sure.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal assisted his daughter, spooning her what he deemed an acceptable amount of eggs, and <em> whatever else </em> was in that scramble. Abigail had yet to pick up her adoptive father’s perfect table manners. She handled the fork with the same clumsy grip as she did earlier; Hannibal had not thought to give her smaller or easier to hold utensils. (Though he definitely had them. The careless mistake was unlike him, yet understandable.) Abigail went through her breakfast happily, eating at an uncaring and ravenous pace. A lack of manners only fitting for somebody her age, fingers sticky from grasping pieces of cut fruit, crumbs of bread at the corners of her mouth ready to be wiped by a doting parent. </p><p> </p><p>“You planning on sending her to school?” Will asked between bites.</p><p> </p><p>“Hannibal says I go in next week,” Abigail answers in her father’s stead. </p><p> </p><p>A warm smile made its way onto Will’s face on its own. “Awesome. What school, Doctor?” He asked, expecting some private academy.</p><p> </p><p>“Lonebridge elementary,” Hannibal mused into the rim of his mug. </p><p> </p><p>Will choked out a laugh. “Not a private tutor or anything like that?”</p><p> </p><p>“While it was entirely an option to send her to a more reputable facility, I would want her to live a fuller life. And I could forgo the tuition costs, whatever she doesn’t learn from there I can tutor her myself. Or perhaps,” The older man’s eyes slid over to Will, “We could get some help from a certain <em> professor. </em>” Hannibal’s lip quirked upwards into the barest hint of a smile. </p><p> </p><p>Will’s mouth stuttered. He felt a warmth surface on his skin at the flirtation. “I’m not suited to teach elementary school, Doctor.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, but you teach right?” Abigail interrupted, breaking the seemingly private moment between the adults. “I bet you know a lot of other cool things,” she said with earnest. “Like super cool FBI stuff, I wanna learn that kind of stuff.” </p><p> </p><p>Will admired the kid’s ardor greatly. “FBI stuff isn’t all that cool, there’s a lot more to catching killers than spy lasers and a badge,” He chided.</p><p> </p><p>“I know that, but I still think all the stuff you do is cool,” Abigail returned.</p><p> </p><p>The FBI agent felt his heart clench as memories of Garrett Jacob Hobbs rolled behind his eyelids. For a moment, a gleaming morning with Hannibal and Abigail swapped for a bloodfest. The ten bullets in Hobbs' chest, Hannibal frantically rushing a half-dead Abigail out the front door, Will nearly slipping on the blood that covered the oak floors. How could Abigail think what he did was cool? She watched him kill her father on the clock. A visceral shiver covered Will’s body, a cold he couldn’t just shake. </p><p> </p><p>“Will? Are you okay?” Abigail asked bluntly. She waved her hands across the table hoping to catch his attention.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I’m fine,” He mumbled, head still foggy. He raised the now cold coffee to his lips to take a sip. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hm I wonder if people actually like this story... Anyways thank you to those who keep up with it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Nighttide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Parent-Teacher conferences always go right! (right?) aka How long can I make an hour feel?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: for mild homophobia, note that this fic takes place during the early 2010's and just kinda goes from there... I don't know why I haven't stated that before but it'll be taking much larger time gaps soon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nervousness blocked Hannibal’s throat slightly as he drove the familiar route. He tried his best to focus on the beauty of the darkening sky and Abigail’s humming in the backseat. In all his years within academia, a simple parent-teacher conference is what shook him. Regrettably, Hannibal had missed taking Abigail to the conferences in the winter due to his schedule being preoccupied with a case. However, he had confidence in her as she had flourished over the months in class.</p><p> </p><p>“What song is this, Abigail,” He asked.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, </em>” She recited from the behind him. Her pronunciation was not perfect, but impressive for a first grader.</p><p> </p><p>“Which composer?”</p><p> </p><p>“Bach,” she answered into the fabric of her scarf. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal smiled proudly to himself, content that his daughter had developed his aptness for music early on. </p><p> </p><p>He pulled the Bentley into the filling parking lot of the elementary. They had arrived a prompt ten minutes before the expected 6:30, easily avoiding a chaotic flood of traffic in the parking lot. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you ready, Hannibal? I know you’re nervous.” Much like her adoptive father, Abigail Lecter had become a master of psychoanalysis. Her intelligence was incomparable to children her age and Hannibal couldn’t be any happier. Although a bit blunt, she was sensitive and caring, a sense of empathy akin to that of the <em> other </em> parental influence in her life. </p><p> </p><p>Abigail’s aptitudes were the direct product of unlimited access to Hannibal’s library. Though she couldn’t read much of it, her curiosity was unrestrained, enabled even. Hannibal let her know as much so long as she asked, she learned quickly and enthusiastically. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal permitted himself a laugh, finding it endearing that she picked up on his state of disquietude. “Thank you for asking, Abigail, I’m quite alright.”</p><p> </p><p>“You sure?” she accused, admiring the reflection of her sneakers in the street light. “I mean you’ve been talking even less, frowning into your cups more. You said that shows stress, which means you’re stressed,” she noted. “You’re gonna do great, teachers probably like <em> psychiatrists </em>.” Abigail struggled on the word, not quite wrapping her head around the diction.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” The Doctor lamented to himself. Hannibal looked up into the rearview mirror, meeting Abigail’s gaze. He smiled back at his daughter. Still, he feels his heart thaw. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal tries his best to cover his disgust, hallways smelling strongly of crayon and industrial cleaners. The permeating smells burn his airways. Abigail clings to his side, grabbing at the edge of his sleeve. He overhears several parents talking about him, clamoring  over which kid could possibly belong to an unknown and overdressed single father. He checks his watch, <em> 6:40 </em>. Any second now he would be invited into the quiet of Abigail’s homeroom. </p><p> </p><p>“Lecter?” The woman finally called. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal nudged his wrist slightly, encouraging Abigail to go first. He tries and shakes the anxiety from his body. The doctor followed the skipping girl into the classroom. Greeted with obnoxious colors and the buzz of fluorescent lights, he walks in soundlessly. </p><p> </p><p>The teacher stood in front of the pair, blocking them from stepping further. “So nice to see you, Elizabeth Johnson,” She offered a pudgy hand for Hannibal to shake. </p><p> </p><p>“Hannibal Lecter,” the doctor obliged, promptly accepting the handshake. Quick and formal. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve heard <em> so </em> much about you, come, have a seat. Abigail, you too.” Elizabeth led the two to a secluded desk in the corner of the room, set up just for conferences. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal took his seat, the uncomfortably small plastic chair groaning under his weight. He crossed his legs awkwardly, but maintained his professional posture. He tried his best not to stare uncomfortably at the woman. “I’m not so familiar with the concept of a parent-teacher conference,” he admits, inflections perfectly rehearsed.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Mr. Lecter-”</p><p> </p><p>“Doctor,” Abigail interrupted. Hannibal had half a mind to scold her for the incivility, but ignored it. “Hannibal’s formal title is doctor,” she finished.  </p><p> </p><p>Elizabeth nodded, “<em> Doctor </em> Lecter, my apologies,” she corrected through a constrained smile. Her muddy blue eyes reflected with irritation, surrounded by dull, fatigued skin. “There isn’t much at all to worry about, it’s just to check in with parents about how their kids are doing. It’s always nice to see the people backing the kids y’know.” It was then Hannibal became painfully aware at how standard her accent was. Nothing short of the paragon Atlantic American dialect. He found it bothersome how forced and cheery she attempted to sound on top of that. </p><p> </p><p>“I see.”</p><p> </p><p>The next ten minutes were boring and procedural. Comments about Abigail’s assignments, praises for her exemplary job in language arts, the whole nine yards. Abigail herself took pride in pointing out all her favorite parts to Hannibal, the white of the paper mirroring in her irises. Hannibal felt a resonating exult within him knowing he was cultivating her mind properly, that she was reaching her potential. He genuinely believed that he would never encounter a bright mind like hers in his lifetime again. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure you’re very proud of her, doctor. But we need to have a little discussion without Abigail in the room, is that okay with you?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh god. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure it is of the utmost necessity,” Hannibal replied stiffly, suspicion building up in his core. Yet he delivered the line with another disingenuous grin. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright,” Elizabeth directed her attention to Abigail who was resisting chewing on the edge of her scarf. “I’m going to have you head out for now, Abigail. I won’t have your dad too long, okay?” she condescended. </p><p> </p><p>“Mhm mhm, I can do that,” Abigail said, nodding in an exaggerated fashion. She turned to Hannibal, who couldn’t help but look back. Her expression was lost, eyes wandering and lips downturned. Her hand hesitantly waved him goodbye. </p><p> </p><p>Her father’s gaze seemed to communicate a message all its own, reassuring her that it wouldn’t be long. As severe as Hannibal looked, his eyes possessed their own gentleness. The three in the room allowed for a comfortable silence to set in as they waited for Abigail to skip out the room. Only when the click of the door rang off the walls did the conference resume.</p><p> </p><p>Elizabeth’s expression hardened almost immediately. Her rounded face pinching together with immediate concern. “Dr. Lecter, is everything alright in your home?” </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s lip twitched at the assault of the question. “Why wouldn’t it be?” He asked with another fake smile. He folded his hands across his lap, restrained. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, there are some things about Abigail that would indicate otherwise,” The teacher started, eyeing Hannibal’s hands, noting the lack of a wedding band. “Here is one of our assignments from class, a “Me and my Family” assignment from the start this semester.” </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal accepted the piece of printer paper. He carefully picked the sheet up, staring closely. An image scribbled in colored pencil and marker, a crude rendition of what she viewed as her family. Written under it was a vague description of each person scratched out in round letters. <em> There’s nothing wrong here. </em></p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure you know who that other man is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Will Graham,” Hannibal sighed with an undeniable fondness. Ideas stirred at the back of his mind of what she could possibly say next. He hoped none of them would come to fruition. </p><p> </p><p>“What is your relationship with Mr. Graham?” She interrogated.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Great. Just fantastic. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Patient/psychiatrist, I was assigned by the FBI to him specifically. Since then we’ve grown close as friends, off working hours of course. Our agreements to equally involve ourselves in Abigail’s-”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal flinched as he was cut off.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you <em> sure </em> that’s what your relationship is?” A scowl manifested onto Elizabeth’s face, unflattering wrinkles etching into the skin around her mouth. “Abigail presented this with that unwavering confidence of hers-” Hannibal noted the backhanded compliment. “... boasting about her two dads. It’s caused a lot of discomfort with other students, a lot of them don’t associate themselves with her because of it. Look, I’m not one to judge your <em> lifestyle choices </em> nor Will Graham’s, but her lack of a mother figure is not right. It’s affecting my other students, that’s a problem,” she lectured. </p><p> </p><p>A suffocating sense of loathing swathed Hannibal. He couldn’t prevent the scowl from appearing on his face. “Listen, my Abigail is perfectly fine the way she is.” <em> My Abigail. </em> The phrase sat familiarly on his tongue. It made him recall how he’d talk so proudly about Mischa. The gleaming smile on his face as he’d show off his beloved little sister, his Mischa, before- <em> nevermind. </em> “ If Abigail sees him as a parental figure and her family then she does. It does not provide you the right to speculate and theorize what that means in terms of me and your internal agenda. As I was once an educator, your lack of objectivity is quite irking.” Hannibal found himself sitting stiffly in the chair, any movements, change in posture would expose the anger lying under his skin. </p><p> </p><p>Ms. Johnson’s mouth resigned itself to another passive aggressive smile. “I’m going to have to dismiss you, Dr. Lecter. I have a few more families to get to tonight. Feel free to take this home with you.” Tacky bracelets clack against the table as she pointed to the family portrait. “Good evening.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good evening.” Hannibal gingerly swiped the piece of paper off the desk along with the packet containing Abigail’s report card and exited the room. </p><p> </p><p>His eyes scanned frantically for Abigail, she had wandered off somewhere. He stepped carefully around the corridor, looking for her.</p><p> </p><p>“Abigail,” He called quietly, hoping that the girl would come bounding to his side immediately. A lack of response pricked at his skin. He made his way through the labyrinth of classrooms, walking at a nearly motorized place. It was so unlike her to drift away from him like this. The tension he carried with him inadvertently tightened his grip on the manila folder that resided in his palm. </p><p> </p><p>Lecter snaked his way through several flurries of parents and children before catching the familiar sight of an amaranthine scarf. Abigail was conversing with another child, friendly conversation he’d assumed. </p><p> </p><p>“There you are, Abigail,” He hailed, walking closer. </p><p> </p><p>“Hannibal!” She beamed in response, expression brightening at the sight of her adoptive father. She stepped away from the people holding her company immediately. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal looked down at her, relieved that she was safe. While he valued her autonomy, she was still six-years-old and prone to naivety. After the altercation with her teacher, Hannibal was frankly just interested in going home to prepare dinner. </p><p> </p><p>“You must be Abigail’s dad.” </p><p> </p><p>The doctor’s eyes flicked up to the woman addressing him, the mother presumably. Ruddy skin and flaming orange hair, this was the mother of Nicholas Boyle. A boy that Abigail has brought up to him before, an acquaintance. Her smile was artificial and her eyes were lined thickly with cakey eyeliner. Her hands clasped together and a waifish boy clung to her hip. </p><p> </p><p>“Adoptive only, but yes,” Hannibal stated. “Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” He introduced himself seemingly for the hundredth time. </p><p> </p><p>“Patty Boyle, a pleasure. You European, <em> Doctor </em>?” Hannibal recognized the lilt to her words immediately. </p><p> </p><p>He shuddered off her flirtations to answer. “Yes, my home nation is Lithuania. I was raised by my Japanese aunt and uncle predominantly after the death of my parents as a boy. After that I spent most of my adolescence in France.” It was here Hannibal noted that his interactions here in the hallways of Lonebridge Elementary were strikingly similar to the ones he’d have at his own highbrow dinner parties. He had no shame in reciting his past, one he had down to a science, telling people just enough that they regard him as interesting. “After that I studied medicine, was a surgeon at John Hopkins, and now I work as a psychiatrist teaming up with the FBI. However, I’ve definitely been more preoccupied these days,” He delivered, gesturing his hand to Abigail, who was communicating to Nicholas quietly in little waves and funny faces. </p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Boyle listened to Hannibal’s words, her breath being swept away with the most basic of information. It was clear that she was trying to catch his attention the way that he caught hers. The way she leaned in and laughed with a hollow tin sound, the way her eyes focused on the lapels of his suit jacket, it was all there. “Wow, that’s a lot for a little place like this don’t ya think.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal was <em> a lot for a little place like this </em>, it wasn’t a secret that sending Abigail to a modest school only echoed his status louder. No other parents wore hand tailored suits or drove perfectly refurbished classics, and it came as a shock to everyone especially so since Abigail did not necessarily reflect his finer tastes either. He allowed her to take after others around her. </p><p> </p><p>He gave the woman a curt laugh, just to humor her pathetic attempts of flattery slightly. “I suppose, but I deduced that she would do far better later on developing her social skills here. After all I could do without the extra years of tuition.” That was definitely just to detract from himself, he could pay Abigail’s tuition several times over with his inheritance alone. </p><p> </p><p>“How interesting,” she chuckled weakly. “Your wife must be so lucky, a shame I didn’t get to meet her tonight.” She lamented artificially. Her eyes darted up for a split second to check if her rouse was effective (it really wasn’t).</p><p> </p><p>Yet Hannibal decided to play along for a little longer, “I don’t have a wife. Never married.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, that’s such a shame. I’m hitched to that man over there,” She pointed dejectedly to a gaggle of men slightly down the hall. Hannibal didn’t pay attention to which one in particular, he was in no position to care. “He’s been real interested in figuring out who drove their kids to parent teacher conferences in a Bentley,” she snorted.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal tipped his head to the side and offered her a telling smile.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s- That makes a world of sense. You must be such a big car guy then, huh, Doctor?”</p><p> </p><p>“I have taste in vehicles but I wouldn’t consider myself to engrossed in the world of luxury automotives.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He lost her. Too verbose and pretentious.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Once again the difference between Hannibal and Mrs. Boyle was delineated painfully. The degree of awkwardness struck Hannibal, he had little idea of how casual this event was supposed to be. Sure, he had just come from working and felt no need to change into less conspicuous attire or dumb himself down, but this was getting bad. </p><p> </p><p>“I suppose it’s getting rather late. I need to get this one to bed soon,” The doctor said. He pressed his hand between Abigail’s shoulder blades, encouraging her to bid her classmate farewell. </p><p> </p><p>“Bye, Nicholas,” she simpered.</p><p> </p><p>“Bye Abigail, I’ll see you tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The velvet sky and crisp air meet Hannibal and Abigail as they escape the stuffy hallways of the elementary school. Abigail takes a second to regard the clarity of the stars as they flashed in the sky. A sky that walked the edge between blue and midnight black as the last few fleeting rays of sun had finally retired behind the suburban skyline. Hannibal looked up with her, spotting familiar constellations and noting their placements that night. </p><p> </p><p>“I can see why you like the sky so much, Hannibal,” she tells him privately.</p><p> </p><p>“Why do you suppose that?”</p><p> </p><p>“It never really looks the same, even if you know where everything is, the colors can look different depending on what’s up there. Different stuff’s up there every day so it never looks exactly like it did before. It’s so pretty,” The girl articulated. </p><p> </p><p>“Clever one,” Hannibal mused. The two stood in front of the school only a moment longer when the howl of the wind gave their cue to go home. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal tossed the file in his hand to the passenger’s seat carefully before checking the mirror to see if Abigail had buckled herself in properly. She, expectedly, was. Her eyes were focused out the window watching as other families drove away from the school. Hannibal could see the fires of curiosity within her gaze and the wheels of cognition turning in her head. He permitted himself another doting smile before backing out of the parking lot and embarking on the drive back home to his office deeper in the city. </p><p> </p><p>“What did Ms. Johnson tell you?” Abigail inquired plainly. “Whatever it was you did <em> not </em> like it, did you.”</p><p> </p><p>“No. I found what she told me rather ignorant.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“The woman had the audacity to insinuate that the way I and Will are raising you is not sufficient. Her insolence prompted her to inform me of her rather <em> unsavory </em> beliefs.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that why she thought my family project was bad? Because I put Will in it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Unfortunately.”</p><p> </p><p>Abigail studied the micro-expression on Hannibal’s face as he replayed the conference in his mind. The roll of his lips signified that the interaction was <em> biting </em> at him. <em>He needed to bite back.</em> His eyes met Abigail’s in the reflection of the rearview mirror. The two exchanged a knowing look. A slight rosy grin peeked out from the edge of the scarf.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you particularly attached to Ms. Johnson, Abigail?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Christ this chapter is long... I suppose its almost a repentance for making that last one so short, but we're getting there lmao. Also again, thank you for sticking with me and my inconsistent updates on this story! (I am just a highschool student and school's been pretty intensive and doesn't allow me much time to write lol.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Meridian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will getting (ineffective?) therapy... What's new?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Idk how I feel about this one but I thought it was time for Will to get a taste of that sweet, sweet character development. What better way to do that but through weird dialogue and sending things abruptly downhill!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> The body has been mangled and twisted, get this, posed in an old fashioned students’ desk. This display is gruesome! A gutted corpse of a woman so mutilated that officers are still trying to find a match! I’d like you to put your heads together, dear readers, could this be the same body of the elementary teacher mysteriously vanished last week? Who do you think the killer is; the elusive Chesapeake Ripper perhaps?  Will our star profiler Will Graham be the one to bust this butcher?… As always if you have any tips, leads, or evidence I implore that you contact the police or FBI now! Until then, happy tattling! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> - Freddie Lounds </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Stalking yourself on gossip sites was obscenely self absorbed, not that Hannibal minded, <em> of course </em> . He found Freddie’s writing amusing in a comedic sense. Farcical and hyperbolic in nature, he considered it akin to watching horrible films or standup, strictly for leisure. He smirked at the ode to his <em> display </em> which took the FBI an astonishing amount of time to find, a whole week and a half. </p><p> </p><p>The doctor set down his tablet and reclined slightly in his chair, reveling in the quiet of his office. Gentle scratching of an old classics record filled the gaps between his sighing breaths. He was anticipating his usual midday patient. Hannibal checked the time and promptly pulled open one of the drawers to his desk. He kept journals for every patient he’s seen together, except for this one. Will’s collection of leather-bound journals sat in the top drawer of his desk with his art supplies and other stationary. Hannibal retrieved the latest one and set it down gently on the plane of his desk. He looked in the drawer only a moment longer to see if <em> the box </em> was where he put it last. </p><p> </p><p>The box was a deep hue of viridian, delicate satin fabric covering the frame. Inside resided a singular silver ring, genuine, but plated in oxidized metal to give it a gunmetal hue. At the center of the delicate band was an inlay of deer antler, forming a marbled stripe down the center. Embarrassingly, Hannibal had secretly taken Will’s ring size while he passed out on a ride during a case. (He wore an 8.5.) Hannibal did not consider himself above that and Will had been resting on his shoulder. Nonetheless, it would fit perfectly, Hannibal often lamented about the day he’d present it to Will. Traditionally, it would be seen as an engagement, but he’d accept whatever Will would take it as. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal smiled to himself knowing that the little box still rested where he placed it last, aligned perfectly with the bottom left corner of the drawer.  He admired the fabric as it shone for a second before shutting the drawer. Instead, he gave his attention the current volume of Will’s notes, reading over what he scrawled down last during his previous session. </p><p> </p><p><em>Notably worsening nightmares, increasing periods of dissociation. He has become more personable over time, yet struggles with social interactions; people disturb him. No progress with sleep, yet as of 01/24/2012 there have been no intense signs of cognitive impairment.</em> <em>Hyper-empathy has taken a severe toll on Will. He constantly considers himself a killer though he hasn’t utilized lethal force since the death of Garret Jacob Hobbs. Hallucinations of Hobbs have only grown more frequent and graphic, yet are alleviated within the presence of Abigail. </em></p><p> </p><p>Hannibal noted his own little arrows and markings within the margins, pointing to related factors and repeated occurrences. In the corner of the page stared back at him an ink sketch of the patient’s eyes. He found Will’s eyes intensely captivating, sketching them only felt natural. The pen etching out a map to the entrance to his soul. The very essence of himself was locked behind those glacial eyes of his. Hannibal yearned to own the key, yet he yearned more so to get to Will’s core. <em> By any means necessary. </em> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Will found comfort in the familiarity of his situation. Sitting across from Hannibal, slowly allowing the chair beneath him to memorize his body. It wasn’t anything new, but it felt like it was.</p><p> </p><p>“How are you, Will?”</p><p> </p><p>“Rather basic of you, Doctor,” He snapped playfully. “Are we not past that yet?”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal grinned earnestly, “Simply a formality. This is after all, therapy. All I need to know is how you feel, from there we can roam together into the depths of your mind, should you be inclined to lead the way.”</p><p> </p><p>Barely half past noon on a spring day was perhaps not the occasion for a sobering therapy session, but Will played along out of pure obligation. Hannibal was still his <em> assigned </em> psychiatrist. “I guess I’m,” he paused to grasp at words just out of his reach, “slowly numbing.”</p><p> </p><p>The doctor raised an inquisitive brow (though lacking actual eyebrows.)</p><p> </p><p>“Jack’s been pressing real hard on this case considering it had taken us a <em> week </em> to find that little exhibition. I’m sure you’d know about it by now.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am aware. Jack sent me an email keeping me on standby for future investigative reasons. I’ve already made arrangements with Alana to watch over Abigail if necessary,” Hannibal caught himself mid-tangent. This was not a conversation about his parental duties. “Speaking of, how severe have your hallucinations of Hobbs grown since we last discussed?”</p><p> </p><p>“I find his presence, tampering with my work. I start walking around in the killer’s shoes and then I see <em> him </em>. Then the illusion breaks and my thoughts get clouded with just his face; eternally drawing amusement from me. He sees somebody that I have yet to see, the jester to his sick little show,” Will strained, eyes cast down under a furrowed brow. He’s gripping at the chair tighter now, the wrinkles setting deeper into his face.</p><p> </p><p>The scratching of Hannibal’s pen bridged the silence. “You say you haven’t met this version of yourself that Hobbs seems to know. But I propose that you <em> have </em> seen that man, Will. I could even suggest that you know him intimately, yet you refuse to acknowledge him. Always there, tormenting you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not a killer, Hannibal,” Will stammers. “That’s who Hobbs is seeing, a murderer. Anticipating the day that I spend too long walking in a murderer’s shoes and I leave them on. I like the fit <em> too </em> much, and I eventually find them comfortable enough that I won’t take them off.”</p><p> </p><p>All the radiance had been sucked out the room. It was early yet Hannibal’s study was dark and still. The warmth from the windows meant nothing to the frigid chills that shot down Will’s spine with each piercing look from Hannibal. This was no longer a place to cultivate comfort as it was moments ago. </p><p> </p><p>“I know you’re not a killer. You haven’t killed since the incident, that was not what your intent. But your mind has created a version of Will Graham that is a culmination of what you’ve learned over the years. He lurks within you and you’ve yet to confront him because you’re afraid what he will do if you ever have the intent to take life. A body of fear that you hold over yourself, preventing yourself from deriving joy from the carnage and bloodlust,” Hannibal analyzed. “Perhaps the mind can manifest violent thoughts as a coping mechanism for internalized rage.”</p><p> </p><p>“Internalized?” Will scoffs defensively. The pads of his fingers dig deeper into the meat of his arms, abruptly crossed tightly over his chest. “It’s beyond internalized. I find myself needlessly irritated at the world that the only sense of catharsis is through extirpation.” Words poured from his soul, guttural and unyielding. <em> It’s too fucking early for this. </em></p><p> </p><p>Hannibal pursed his lips, pondering what he could say next. Seconds of silent contemplation passed before he answered. “Catharsis? Was this development recent, only discovered after the death of Hobbs?”</p><p> </p><p>Will held his bottom lip tightly between his teeth, damming the flood that he desperately prayed would never break through. “No.” </p><p> </p><p>His earlier words aged poorly.</p><p> </p><p>The doctor’s expression morphed from robotic to scrutinizing in a matter of seconds. “Is that why you fear becoming what the ghost haunting your psyche sees so much? Does this representation of guilt come from the fact that the sense of ablution is not in its infancy.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s mild tone and overall composure did not help in the slightest. While he sat, poised in his chair, Will was losing it. Head spinning immediately, his chest beginning to heave, tremors forming in his hands, he felt as though he were on a marathon desperately running from an inundation of memories. Secrets he’d hoped to lock deep down and never speak out loud resurfacing. His vision tunneled slightly and it felt like there was nowhere to look other than directly at Hannibal, who was impossibly unmoving. Was he not seeing Will’s distress? <em> No. </em> He was <em> ignoring </em> it...</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ...He’s expecting an answer, give it to him, goddamnit! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I felt good killing Hobbs because it was eradicating a necessary evil. He,” The words ripped his throat raw. “He reminded me <em> so much </em> of my father- How much of this are you giving to Jack?”</p><p> </p><p>“Only what I deem necessary.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, good.” Will swallowed thickly, trying to quiet the gurgling stomach acid fighting its way up. “These words stay within the walls of this office, or, <em>or</em> <em>you’re dead, Doctor,” </em>he barked inhumanely. Immediately startled by slip of control, Will felt compelled to cover his mouth, holding his jaws shut would be the only way to stop him from saying more.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal was nearly too intrigued, there was something surfacing in front of him, something beautiful. He desired to coax it out further, drink in as much of this new facet of Will voraciously. Objectivity was impossible when the masterpiece of his mind began to leak from the constraints of his skull. </p><p> </p><p>The beauty of violence.</p><p> </p><p>“I ensure maximum confidentiality. I will carry whatever you want to give me to my grave if you want me to, Will,” Hannibal smiled. His hand tentatively marked the lined sheet of paper beneath it. </p><p> </p><p>The profiler dropped his hands back down to the armrests. He peered up through his bangs, looking directly at Hannibal now, entrapped by the psychiatrist’s hypnotic stare. He waited for the slightest nod of confirmation before messily taking in a breath.</p><p> </p><p>“Garett Jacob Hobbs, reminded me of my father… a little too much. Every time I think about what he did to Abigail and all those women, that same vile energy I felt from dear old dad comes back to crawl under my skin,” Will confessed first. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal remembered previous discussions about Will’s father, though nothing in depth.</p><p> </p><p>“Just like him, that’s all he wanted. Your perfect southern boy, a continuation of the years long running boat fixing business. I want to be nothing like him.  <em> Alcoholic bastard. </em> When my mom left it just got worse from there. One day after school,” he paused, and takes a second to realize what he’s about to say. Hannibal was unusually silent, just adding to his notes and staring at him. “One day after school I just, <em> had enough. </em>” The profiler closed his eyes tightly, rewatching the events play out in his mind. </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly he’s sixteen again, he can still hear the music coming from the assortment of insects that inhabited the wild backyard that sat behind the shack. The dry office air is replaced with the humid atmosphere of his home town, a mean draft coming off the lake, stinging his skin. He remembers everything so clearly yet so blurrily at the same time, the cover of night and the nearly blinding moonlight. Suddenly that teen angst and anger is suddenly infecting his body again as he sits in the chair.  His semblance of a soul shattered back into what it was that day. <em> And he tells Hannibal everything. </em></p><p> </p><p>“And I <em> smiled </em>, gloated even. Watching the light leave his eyes, was surreal. His pulse stopping beneath my very own fingertips. He had no problem nearly doing the same to me, only fair. Don’t you think? Nobody out there, just us, nobody heard,” Will’s sentences nearly fell apart with every word. His body is shivering violently, and Hannibal can only watch. He needed to see Will come apart so he’d know how to put him back together. “I could finally turn off that fucker’s radio.”</p><p> </p><p>“The radio?” Hannibal asked.</p><p> </p><p>“He’d only play that station that blared hymns and preachers. Dad made me pray every night to a God I wasn’t sure even existed. What holy perfect being would let me get stuck with a monster like that? But I didn’t have to hear it anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>“How did you recover after killing your father, Will?” Hannibal really couldn’t stop probing. With a disclosure like this? No way. </p><p> </p><p>Will sat buckled over himself, head bowed forward- <em> perhaps a habit or instinct when confessing, a remnant from his childhood- </em>hands clasped tightly to still them. “After strangling him, I pushed him in the lake. Small town, shitty police, everybody believed me when I told them that he just, fell off a boat one day,” he laughed nervously. “Every night, I’d sit in his chair, and,” Will stopped again. He couldn’t continue. Every word he attempted to form was reduced to a hiccupping sob accompanied with burning tears.</p><p> </p><p>The breaking point was exactly where Hannibal wanted him. Secretly, of course, but he wanted to see all of Will, measure, calculate, and coerce him for his amusement. Each new thing he learned fueled his obsession. He furiously recorded his observations waiting for more. It was perfection, yet he wasn’t satisfied-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fuck. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal caught himself before ever letting that question slip past. Something new hit him, a rare, <em> foreign </em> feeling. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What was this? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The doctor blinked slowly, remembering the ring. Remembering that he has something to do after this. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And something broke. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal swiftly jumped out of his seat, standing in front of Will, who hesitantly lifted his head to look up at Hannibal. His face was messy, streaked in glittering tears and his skin the scarlet of shame. His eyes still had the remnants of defiance, angry he had no choice but to express vulnerability to a man he previously didn’t like all that much. </p><p> </p><p>Wordlessly, the doctor placed his hands on the other man’s shoulders, encouraging him to stand. Will looked at him with momentary resistance but caved anyways, faltering as he stood. Almost instantaneously, he collapses into Hannibal’s chest for support, arms falling naturally at his waist. </p><p> </p><p>Crying was a nuisance with any other patient. Hannibal usually resigned himself in his seat, silently cursing the other party as they bawled and stained his chair with tears. He regarded it unprofessional, but this was different. As Will cried on his shoulder he ruminated on what within him sparked this uncharacteristic compassion. It transcended basic empathy, as this was not a natural response. Even beyond unhealthy infatuation driven madness, the madness caused by obsessive research; the devotion to a project. No.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It was just, love. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>When Will broke the embrace, he wanted to grab his stuff and run. The doctor, however, kept him from escaping, bringing a gentle hand to Will’s face. Tensing at first at the contact, Will couldn’t stop himself from melting into the touch. He (really) liked the warmth.  Hannibal’s other hand held his pocket square, which he used to dry the last of his weeps. Will kept his eyes downcast, defiant. </p><p> </p><p>“Doctor, Lecter,” he started weakly. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Will?” Hannibal replied dotingly. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re not my mother,” Will laughed awkwardly. “You don’t need to take care of me and dry my tears."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There he is. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s resolve softened into an amused smirk. “I don’t believe your mother would’ve done this,” he quipped. </p><p> </p><p>“Bastard,” Will challenged hoarsely, glaring sharply through his brows. </p><p> </p><p>“I suppose I could say the same of you.”</p><p> </p><p>Will pushed at Hannibal’s chest with a laugh, freeing himself. His face warmed up to his usual arrogant smirk, diminished slightly by the blush that covered his skin and puffiness around his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal wore his own content expression, simply admiring Will. He checked his watch. “It seems our session is about over, would you care to join me when I pick up Abigail from school later?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, doctor, I’ve got to take Buster to the vet in a little,” Will replied plainly. </p><p> </p><p>“Very well then. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow if Jack calls me in.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” The profiler made a half turn on his heels to grab his coat off the chair. “And, Hannibal, we are never to discuss this again.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course not, I’ll take it to my grave if you want me to,” he acquiesced. </p><p><br/>
“Good. I’ll put you <em> in </em> a grave if you don’t,” Will joked back before heading to the door, Hannibal on his heels as always.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Mmm angst, finally. </p><p>(also E, ik you're reading this buddy, I threw in acquiesce j u s t for you ;})</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Siesta</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gaslight, gatekeep, girlbos- I mean go to work.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is our biggest time skip yet! approximately a year from the last chapter and two from the very beginning.  I also made up another murder tableau.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will bolted up in the bed, disoriented. His eyes had not acclimated to the dark, only registering a  blurry void in front of him. Vague memories of the dream crawl on his skin and wear on his mind. His chest rises and falls at an unstable pace, stuttering and halting with each intake. He quickly realizes that he isn’t home, the bed supporting his body is too soft. </p><p> </p><p>As if on cue, Hannibal quickly turns on the lamp, the room flooding in amber light. </p><p> </p><p>“Will, are you alright?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Will curses under his breath. “Yeah, I’m okay, just another nightmare,” he complains, rubbing at his eyes. He flinches at the sudden presence of a hand tracing circles on his back. His muscles relax at the touch and he reclines onto Hannibal’s shoulder, staring at the ceiling. He has very little recollection of what he did last night, just that he was safe. “What time is it?”</p><p> </p><p>The doctor twists to check the analog clock on the adjacent wall, “3:30. You fell asleep approximately four hours ago. I will turn the lights out when you feel comfortable enough to go back to sleep.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks.” Will stared emptily at the ceiling, following its patterns and observing how the lamp light brought out the texture. He tried to shut his eyes but there was still a lingering discomfort. The warmth of the bed was negated by the damp fabric of his shirt clinging to his back. He attempted to ignore it because this was the first night he’d truly spent at Hannibal’s since they’d just decided to officiate their <em> relationship. </em> It would be awkward to ask for another set of clothes considering he hadn’t brought anything other than the ones he’d wear to work later that day. Yet, the persistent cold at his back made it impossible to resituate in a comfortable position. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal noticed Will’s squirming and retracted his hand slightly, fearful that his contact was the cause. “Do you need anything? Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks, patient and monotone.  </p><p> </p><p>“No, no your hand’s fine, it’s just-” Will stopped himself mid sentence. He rolled over and found the other man with a concerned frown, expression softened only further by the light. His hair fell delicately over his forehead, a nice curtain for the honey brown of his eyes. Will was lost in them for a second. <em> Just ask him, Graham. </em>“Do you have any extra shirts? Mine is, um,” he stammered. </p><p> </p><p>The request caught Hannibal briefly off guard. “Yes, of course,” he said absently, immediately simmering in the sheets. Will watches, slightly embarrassed as Hannibal slips out of the tangle of sheets effortlessly to walk across the room. Will pulls the comforter over himself more, trying to hide the flushing of his cheeks. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal re-emerged from the abyss of the closet carrying a white shirt and a sizeable washcloth. “These should suffice,” his bottom lip worried slightly, “Although, the shirt might not fit right. My apologies.”</p><p> </p><p>“It should do fine, thanks,” Will whispered, almost polite. He accepted the shirt and the towel gingerly, waiting for Hannibal to climb back into the bed with him. </p><p> </p><p>Pulling the old t-shirt from his body, Will welcomed the warm air that traversed his back. His movements were choppy, but efficient. He considered it awkward that his first relationship in years had already come to accommodating for his <em> unusual </em> sleeping habits. It didn’t help that he felt as though he was under a microscope, Hannibal’s eyes were so eagerly trained on his back. </p><p> </p><p>“Stare much, Doctor?” he snapped.</p><p> </p><p>“Am I not allowed to look?” Hannibal grinned teasingly. </p><p> </p><p>“No, you are… There’s just not much to look at,” Will laughed self-consciously. He brought the towel around his neck for a final pass before laying it down beneath him.</p><p> </p><p><em> God, he was wrong. </em> To the psychiatrist, there was so much to look at. In the golden cast of the light, the movement between muscles under the skin made him look like a living statue of molten bronze. Each curve was defined, skin unblemished except for a few scars. Hannibal wished to know how he got them one day. Reopen them. Look beneath the skin and study his beauty. The most prominent of them traced the seam between his deltoid and trapezius. The size of the incision indicated an open repair of what Hannibal could only assume was his rotator cuff injury. Still red and raised, it has to have been within the last six or seven years. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s shirt fit loose on Will’s frame. It hung slack at the arms and sank low enough to expose the dip of his clavicle. The fabric is cool and soft, a quality material. Will questioned how much this man must spend on even the most basic of clothing items if his sleep shirts were this nice. </p><p> </p><p>“Feeling better?” Hannibal doted, admiring him further. </p><p> </p><p>“Uh, yeah, much better, thanks for the shirt,” Will said, almost polite, diving back under the covers. “You can take out the lights if you want.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Click. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal had his arm braced around Will, protectively. He hummed a tune, one Will hadn’t heard before.  </p><p> </p><p>“What song is that?” Will whispered, nestling his head against the crook of Hannibal’s collarbone. He felt his breath synchronize with the other man’s.</p><p> </p><p>“It wards nightmares,” Hannibal shushed, continuing to murmur lyrics.</p><p> </p><p>Will snorted, “<em> Wards nightmares?” </em>He becomes aware of just how much he’s smiling. </p><p> </p><p>“Not exactly, it’s just a lullaby I sing to Abigail. She happens to also be plagued with night terrors.” The doctor placed a small kiss to the crown of his head, still humming his tune. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Kicking his feet against the metal of the counter, Will watched as Bev, Price, and Zeller zipped around the labs picking apart a new tableau. He wished he could focus on the case, but he was honestly more paranoid of how the dogs were at home. He had left them with Beverly the previous nights, unsure if Katz and dogs <em> really </em> mixed. </p><p> </p><p>“Check this out,” Brian said cooly, fingers pinched tightly on the fine set of tweezers. “A fleck of glitter. Jimmy stop contaminating crime scenes,” he joked.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh please, I’d leave behind far more glitter than that.” The room shortly erupted in bright laughter from everyone. Everyone except for Will, who could only muster a half smile with downcast eyes. </p><p> </p><p>He listened to the crew idly, their words seemed to go in one ear and straight out the other. He knew that this had to be the Ripper, clean, surgical, artistic. Nothing short of the standard murder. Today’s was two men sewn to mimic the Vitruvian man. </p><p> </p><p>“As usual no matches, all prints left on the body are just smears of nitrile gloves,” Price started, clicking away at his computer. “Victims are out the database, nobody comes up, immediately at least. Z?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p> </p><p>“You could probably find a match somewhere-”</p><p> </p><p>“Do your own job.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ha!”</p><p> </p><p>The clicking of Beverly’s ankle boots with sensible heels aligned with the tapping of Hannibal’s Oxfords as both entered the lab. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal peered closely over the body, staring at the suture marks at the seams. “It seems like victims were chosen with near equal proportion. Da Vinci created the Vitruvian Man with symmetry in mind and it was regarded as a staple reference of human anatomy. Each portion of the body aligning with its own mathematical proportion.” </p><p> </p><p>“But the victims aren’t twins,” Zeller frowned into the magnifying glass. “Two entirely separate men with the same profile. It seems like the Ripper collected his trophies this time,” he noted at the seemingly sunken abdomen of the first corpse.</p><p> </p><p>The room unanimously agreed to proceeding with the autopsy to see what exactly the Ripper had taken home. </p><p> </p><p>Beverly preoccupied herself with Will. She looked at him like a wayward toddler in time out, a nearly patronizing smile on her face. “Your dogs are all in great shape, I promise,” she cooed, clutching microscope slides in her gloved hands.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you feed Harley the-”</p><p> </p><p>“Food with <em> specifically </em> the blue label?” She completed. “Y’know I got you, Graham, come on.” </p><p> </p><p>Will frantically muttered things under his breath, desperately trying to quiet his mind. “Yeah,” he trailed. </p><p> </p><p>Beverly leaned up against the counter watching the others slice down the center of the Ripper’s display, paying extra attention to Hannibal. He was leaning over the side table of collected debris. The tailoring of his suit only accentuating the natural angles of his body. </p><p> </p><p>“How was last night?” she asked with a smile.</p><p> </p><p>“Like every other night, no sleep,” he sighed. He recalls the early morning, the smell of sandalwood and soap imprinted onto his skin. Waking up again cradled in Hannibal’s arms, not strangled by his blanket. </p><p> </p><p>Her eyes darted quickly between Lecter and himself, a smirk creeping its way onto her face. “Oh I’m sure there wasn’t much sleeping for <em> either </em> of you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck off,” he glowered, “not like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Bev rolled her eyes in disbelief. </p><p> </p><p> He knew subconsciously that letting anybody know about the <em> new </em> status between him and the doctor would subject him to endless ridicule from his colleagues- <em> but seriously? The first date? </em> He had spent nights at Hannibal’s previously, yet those were often accidents, late nights consulting, grading, therapy that leaked over into the late hours of the night. Nothing like his intentions last night. Sure, it wasn’t special: Take Abigail home, stick around, have dinner, spend the night, but to them, that was romantic enough. </p><p> </p><p>“Miss Katz?” </p><p> </p><p>“Doctor Lecter.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m curious as to what your analysis from the fiber labs brought back,” Hannibal stated formally. </p><p> </p><p>“Right, right,” she shook her head, retrieving the slides from behind her on the counter. “Nothing much really, your usual lint and particle contaminants.” She sounded bored, bored up until the last piece of glass. “But check this out, Doctor,” she gleamed. Holding up the slide to the light, “You can see this one without a microscope.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal leaned to observe Bev’s findings, though keeping his distance. He sees the shadow of a single thread.  Will watched his lips twist in scrutiny.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a piece of purple polyester, the Ripper’s getting colorful.”</p><p> </p><p>“You could say that again,” Price interrupted. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s brow cocked upwards, interested. “Colorful?” he asked genuinely. </p><p> </p><p>“I found a fleck of glitter at the foot of the display, an odd medium, really.”</p><p> </p><p>Will ticked his head up to the room around him, seemingly observing from a glass wall. He’d hoped that he caught someone’s eye after seemingly being ignored for too long. He saw Hannibal break from his default expression at Zeller’s observation. His mouth, previously set in a dull line seemed to drop open in the slightest hint of confusion. Will narrowed his eyes, confused. </p><p> </p><p>“The Ripper found his weakness, a blind spot, an accomplice. He hesitated and left something,” Will uttered to the room. The pervasive silence afterwards indicated that whatever just came from his mouth was definitely better in his head. Will braced himself tighter. “He’s getting careless, sidetracked.”</p><p> </p><p>From the many years Will had been consulting for the FBI, trying to catch the serial killer, there was always no trace. Not a smidge of human evidence on the scene. A crime so perfect that made Jack, skeptic of skeptics, considered the supernatural. The seemingly humorous contaminants on the body were the closest lead they’d had in years. </p><p> </p><p>“So the Ripper is multiple people? That would make sense considering-” Bev scowled at the sudden interruption.</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p>Will drew a labored breath and shut his eyes, navigating the dark behind his eyelids. “Not a partner, a witness. Someone he was partial to, otherwise he wouldn’t have been so sloppy.” </p><p> </p><p>Zeller, Price, and Bev stared at him like a street beggar. With pity, but not enough to say anything. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Damnit. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sloppy was nothing close to the way the Chesapeake Ripper executed his ‘artwork.’ Deadly precision, surgical cuts, layered meanings. Lazy investigators wouldn’t even pay mind to the minute adulterants, leaving it up to coincidence. But Will <em> knew </em> the Chesapeake Ripper, he’s traced his paths numerous times and something such as this wouldn’t have been neglected without reason.</p><p> </p><p>Will averted his gaze to Hannibal, a final desperate plea for recognition. The doctor was looking back at him; plain expression, perhaps coming to conclusions of his own. He made eye contact briefly with Will before turning back to overseeing the autopsy. The lack of conversation locked Will into the confines of his mind, forcing him to ruminate further on the case. He chewed at his lip lazily as he pondered. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What was the Ripper’s weakness? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The vivisection of the corpses found very little new from the Ripper. The standard trophies of choice were taken: Liver, lungs, and the heart. Other trophies were likely to be taken from the second body, although those were nowhere in sight. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal manages to snag a chaste kiss from Will as he exited Will’s car. Nearly two years since Hannibal had taken him home that night and Will still insisted that he drive them places. The older man took amusement to the abrupt flushing of the other’s cheeks as he promptly turned to get Abigail from the back seat from the car. </p><p> </p><p>Will filed into the home, heading straight to the kitchen. He had agreed to quickly debrief with Hannibal before heading back home to Wolf Trap. He threw himself in a chair, fidgeting restlessly, he had much to say. Each second grew more and more agonizing as the information continued to eat at him. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal stepped into the kitchen swiftly, finding Will crumbling all over his table. </p><p> </p><p>“Will?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“Would you like to sous chef whilst we discuss?” He asked politely. </p><p> </p><p>“No. I have to get this out now.” The profiler stated robotically, words stuttering. Will was in no haste to get home by any means, the dogs were taken care of, and he wasn’t particularly excited for another six hour drive. </p><p> </p><p>The other man obliged, taking the chair beside him. He leaned in close and tipped his head to the side, stare as harsh as ever. (Will noted this as a habit to indicate he was listening.) His hands folded primly in front of him.  </p><p> </p><p>Will gave a hesitant nod before proceeding with the information. “Those contaminants on the body… You noticed how specific they were, right? I mean, every little thing about the Ripper is meticulous, he wouldn’t let something like that touch his work unless it was intentional. But this wasn’t intentional. It was a <em> mistake </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>A spark of <em> something </em> lit in Hannibal’s eyes yet his visage remained neutral. “Every artist at some point creates works they are not proud of. Unfinished, imperfect, contrived, even.  Yet they choose to present it regardless, to expose their humanity. Art is full of mistakes. Creatives are not idols no matter how much recognition they get, it is within their best interest to display that to their audience.” </p><p> </p><p>Will’s lips pressed together tightly and grumbled something beneath his breath; irritated that he’d have to decode Hannibal’s rhetoric yet again. His brows knitted together, trying to connect the Ripper’s greatest fuck up in years to some sort of intent. Hannibal noticed the clear distress on his face, extending one of his hands to Will. He took up the offer, shifting the focus to the feeling of the man’s hand. Unlike his own, Hannibal’s hands were limber, skin smooth and clean. They were so elegant compared to his, yet so much stronger. Even holding his hand like this, Will could feel the strength of his grip and the ardent rush of his pulse. </p><p> </p><p>The grounding act seemed to help Will digest the words that were fed to him minutes ago. Hannibal’s input rested at the forefront of his mind, and slowly, it made more and more sense. He wanted to be steps ahead of the killer… and it only made sense… Right? Perhaps the Ripper’s design was truly perfect. A mistake so deliberate it appeared accidental. </p><p> </p><p>Will let out the breath that had been stuck in him all day, finally relieved. He smiled at Hannibal coyly, reminding himself why he had unexpectedly fallen for him in the first place: Understanding. When he lost himself, he knew where to turn, and it felt akin to love. The only person who knew <em> him </em> when he didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal returned his affectionate gaze, his expression warming slightly. He lifted Will’s hand off the table, pressing a kiss to the palm.</p><p> </p><p>“I think I’m gonna go, thanks, Hannibal.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure you can’t stay for dinner?”</p><p> </p><p>“Afraid not.”</p><p> </p><p>The two rose from their seats, preparing to part ways. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll go grab my stuff from your room, say bye to Abigail, and be on my way,” Will sighed, a little sad he couldn’t freeload off of Hannibal’s luxuries another night. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright,” Hannibal responded. He wore a bittersweet smile as his eyes lingered on Will long after he had faded into the corridor. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Finally. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The aching smile was simply a front. It soon twisted into something maliciously satisfied. Hannibal had managed to deflect from the genuine human error that he left behind. He had not considered that Abigail’s shoes had not been sealed properly and shed the occasional fleck of glitter. Or that he shouldn’t let her bring the scarf as its integrity was not what he thought it was. He would have to figure out what to do with the offending articles, but he made it. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p>Will hopped down the stairs, carrying his backpack stuffed with his belongings before walking into the study to bid his final goodbye. He caught Hannibal and Abigail sitting in the same chair at the desk, presumably doing Abigail’s homework together. Something tugged at his heart fondly, he stood and observed silently, savoring the moment a little more. He secretly found amusement in the dichotomy between girl and her adoptive father. She had grown so much since their first encounter, no longer that fearful child hanging on the edge of life. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be heading out now,” he called finally. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal and Abigail synchronously came to attention. Both leaving the desk chair to accompany Will at the exit. </p><p> </p><p>“Bye, Will.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bye, Abigail.” He gave the child a pat on the head, ruffling what he could from the drooping braid. Looking down, he could really only see the top of her head and her toes, adorned with a pair of sparkling lilac tennis shoes. </p><p> </p><p>“Hopefully, you can stay more often,” Hannibal lamented, hand on the doorknob. </p><p> </p><p>“Hopefully,” Will repeated. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>“Definitely.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, Will released himself to the brisk outside. The sun had just begun to dip in the sky, the wind getting ever so slightly colder. He messed with the keys inside his pocket as he walked to the car. </p><p> </p><p>The drive back home was unusually silent, even with the radio on some random station stuck on playing the same ten classic rock hits. It left Will time to breathe, to think, to mindlessly light one of the smokes he kept in his glove box and reflect. He formulated what he’d tell Jack in the morning, how the obvious distractions were planted. The specificity of the thread and the glitter was a red herring. He thought about if the color meant anything, the holographic violet. It was oddly familiar.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Wait- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Will took a stressed drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out one side of his mouth. He didn’t like the possibility he just thought of. He couldn’t possibly think of why Abigail would be anywhere near the Vitruvian man display. After all, he believed it was intentional. </p><p> </p><p>No.</p><p> </p><p>He was coming to conclusions too quickly, ones he had very little basis for. He shrugged of the possibility as he merged lanes on the highway. He hoped he didn’t have to think for the rest of the journey.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ahaha really sorry for the delay with this chapter, I ended up having to rewrite a fair bit of it (as well as schoolwork fdjdjfh) and I'm honestly still dissatisfied with it oops. Let's hope this is even readable!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Interlude</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>(after) the wedding</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Woah, woah, woah, we're about halfway now, that's kinda insane. Here's a self indulgent fluff chapter to precede the vastly more depressing second act.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>How they had got this far was an enigma. A night in glittering golds and rich blues, jovial laughter and excellence. One neither Will Graham nor Hannibal Lecter anticipated would’ve come to them in the manner that it did. Years ago, the two first united in scenes of brutal crime, blood, and suffering. Strenuous working hours and sleepless nights.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will still couldn’t shake those images from his head. Not even tonight, on what was supposedly the best night of his life. Reluctance builds in his throat, he hopes that table’s banter would not fall on him any time soon, still unknowing of what to say. The permanence of it all was new to him, nothing preparing him for this at all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He fears shutting his eyes too long, trying to avoid catching glimpses of what’s back there. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Can’t he just have one night?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks over at Hannibal, longingly, unsure if in this moment either of them were real. As of a few hours ago, they were now husbands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A family. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was nothing he’d ever expect to have right here in his fingertips. Yet he had already given his vows at an altar, and all their paperwork was complete. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t a traditional church wedding, to Hannibal’s disappointment, but his control still prevailed elsewhere. Every bouquet arranged with surgical precision, nearly identical. Colors were coordinated perfectly, outfits chosen painstakingly, it was by all means a perfect wedding. Not traditional by any stretch of the imagination; however traditional was hard to come by when same-sex marriage was still regarded as taboo. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The doctor sets his glass of wine down on the table. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course the dinner and catering was his responsibility.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He laughs at something Jack says, the latter sitting juxtaposed from him. Bella sits poised in the seat next to him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will has deciphered the difference between Hannibal and his persona. Nearly indistinguishable to the untrained eye, but Will has taken to every quirk of his face, the way his chest expands when he laughs, how much of that ridiculous vocabulary the doctor </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> uses. He notices that he’s been keeping up with the charade all dinner. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Will,” there’s an unrelenting tug at his sleeve. “Will," she draws out the L’s.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Abigail,” Will returns, giving the same extension to that last consonant. He shifts slightly, seeing Abigail standing at the edge of the booth. “What’s up?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should come dance with me.” She does a spin, dress fanning out in a perfect bell around her. Golden scarf flowing with her hair as she comes back around. She faces Will again, cheeks rosy from running around, earnest smile lined with pink lipstick. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He considers her for a second, not knowing whether to give in or stay at the table. He stares at the long empty plate of food and nearly empty glass next to it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, one dance,” he obliged. It would take him away from the table-talk anyways. “I’ll meet you on the dance floor.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay!” Abigail’s smile was gleaming, uncaring of the gaps in her teeth that were only barely starting to fill. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will reached his hand behind him, finding Hannibal’s. Startled almost, Hannibal’s hand moves up his arm to his shoulder as he diverts his attention to Will. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Abigail would like me to dance with her,” he whispers over his shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A warm smile spreads across the doctor’s face, a genuine one this time. “Go ahead, have fun,” he advises.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will leans in for a brief liplock, to which Hannibal returns, before awkwardly shuffling out of the booth. He straightens out the suit as he walks. The spaces where Hannibal once occupied feeling increasingly empty as they were replaced with the brisk night air. He cants his head up to observe the few rolling clouds that obscured the moon. They threatened to coalesce into a rainstorm within the coming days, but tonight, this exceedingly perfect night, they stayed apart, only there to frame the sky. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A short walk from the dining area, the dance hall of the venue was a similarly proportioned structure with an arcing ceiling and ornate wood pillars holding up the roof. Will was mindful of his steps as he made the transition from walkway to floor, he had tripped over it earlier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail stood at the center, twisting on her heels by herself, watching the dress swish around her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God,</span>
  </em>
  <span> did she love that dress. Hannibal had picked it out for her, and it was nothing short of perfect. Just formal enough that she felt grown up, but nothing actually grown up. The hem of the skirt fell at her knees with a high cut neckline. A gold silk scarf to match the band at her waist, shaping the garment. Will remembers the overjoyed look on Hannibal’s face when he brought it home from the tailors alongside the matching suits. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He jogged over to her, patting a hand at her shoulder to catch her attention. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will,” she addressed. Even after several years, Abigail hadn’t taken to calling him nor Hannibal ‘dad’ or any similar epithets. Neither of them seemed to mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You ready to dance?” Will asked, adding a cheesy grin for effect. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You bet,” Abigail said, striking a brash pose. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will chuckled in response, turning to face her, offering out his left hand. The silver of his ring glinted under the warm lights. Abigail accepted and immediately started to step along with the faint hum of music that played from a speaker </span>
  <em>
    <span>somewhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Will, never known for dancing, stumbled over his feet attempting to keep up with the girl’s pace. Her moves walked a line between classic waltz and a childish flurry of spins. Which felt oddly fitting, he’d imagine Hannibal had taught her to waltz at some point. Will mentally stores the image of the two dancing through around in the study, counting beats in sync. </span>
  <em>
    <span>One, two, three, one, two, three. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will noticed the percussive tapping of her shoes on the wood floors. He remembers spending time at Hannibal’s and seeing Abigail wear the ever living hell out of those strappy gold sandals. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Her first pair of high heels.</span>
  </em>
  <span> She was insistent on getting them right, wearing them with confidence to run and jump and dance, walking with no hesitation. All of it, for this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail’s laugh rung bright and clear, her smile the widest Will’s ever seen it. Abigail Lecter-Graham was nothing like Abigail Hobbs. The distant look of fear and trauma that clouded her eyes over was gone. The scar at her neck had begun to heal, the red pigment beginning to lift. Will could now look at it without feeling the drop in his stomach, or the need to hold it shut, for fear blood may spill from it again one day. That budding sense of dry humor had blossomed into true comedy. She was growing up, and he wanted nothing more than to see her grow up, cared for, safe. Admittedly, Hannibal had more agency when it came to parental duties, but Will yearned to have more time with her. And this, this was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> moment with her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will’s feet scuffed to a stop when the song hit it’s resolution. He found himself winded and his age really started to catch up to him. He gave Abigail a breathless laugh as she skipped over to face him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That was fun, thanks, Will,” she beamed gratefully. Abigail dropped his hand in favor of the scarf. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it was,” his mouth twisted into an awkward half-smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Quite the moves, Graham. I thought you didn’t dance.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Miss Bloom!” Abigail interrupted before Will could get a chance to confirm Alana’s statement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail dashed over to Alana, arms open anticipating an embrace. The psychiatrist obliged, wrapping her arms around the girl and swaying. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How ya doin’ kiddo?” It was mere instinct for her to ask how people were doing as a greeting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m good. Having fun, I kinda wanna go home.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t we all.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her gaze averted to Will, who absently fiddled with the cufflinks on his jacket. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So sad you’re taking her from me,” Alana joked. The corners of her lips downturned slightly before snapping back into a smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ha,” Will rolled his eyes, “She was never yours,” he snipped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Without me, Hannibal would’ve never adopted her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will nodded and quirked his brow in acknowledgement. “Got me there.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their conversation was briefly interrupted when another figure entered the space. A woman wearing a sparkling gold blouse tucked into a black skirt. Her hair fell in organized waves and eyes were round and glassy. She was familiar in a way Will couldn’t quite place, he narrowed his eyes in mild confusion. Abigail looked at her like someone she knew well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman at Alana’s hip noticed the newlywed’s bewilderment. “Margot Verger.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>So this is who Alana is betrothed to. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She held a manicured hand out for Will to shake. Will obliged, wiping his hand on the side of his pantleg beforehand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Verger name had come up a couple of times during investigation, rumors of unethical practice within their facilities secretly placed the company on a watchlist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Congratulations,” Margot greeted politely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” he replied dryly. Will wasn’t a conversationalist after all. “Abigail, I’m going to go check on your dad, okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His daughter nodded, still resting in Dr. Bloom’s arm, ready to converse with her and Margot. Hannibal had not invited any guests with kids around her age, so her socialization was restricted to the few familiar adults. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The table Will previously abandoned still simmered with conversation. All of the guests still ensnared by Hannibal’s charm. Will returned to the seat next to Hannibal, almost unnoticed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt content simply listening to them talk about anything. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shivers shoot down his spine as Hannibal’s hand, as if by instinct, rested against the small of his back. Will thinks about his hand, how much he had grown accustomed to the touch. Throughout the years, he sought stability and comfort, and he always seemed to find it in the hands of the doctor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal reclines in the booth, taking a second to listen. “How was your dance?” he whispers, eyes locked on his husband.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It went great, not sure what we were dancing to, but I had fun,” Will mumbles in reply. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal’s lip only quirks into another satisfied smile as he closes his eyes a moment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know you two still have to return to work after the honeymoon,” Jack chuckles into the rim of his glass, waiting for the last dregs of wine to meet his mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“God, quite the buzzkill, don’t ya think?” Will jeers in response. As much as he felt out of place with the company, he definitely wasn’t missing the academy back in Quantico. His return would prompt the flurry of invasive questions from his students. Though most of them graduates striving for higher degrees, they seemed to hold the same juvenile intrigue as highschoolers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I’m just saying, can’t have my two best profilers gone too long.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The guests burst into mild laughter, all of them dreading their own respective Monday. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I still can’t believe that Will got married before we caught the Chesapeake Ripper,” Zeller quipped. Price immediately jabbed his elbow into Brian’s stomach, drawing a yelp from the former. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A smirk crept its way onto Hannibal’s face as he gave Will a blithe look. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And what’s that supposed to mean?” The hand at Will’s back applied further pressure, encouraging him to talk more. “I’m sure me getting married was </span>
  <em>
    <span>far</span>
  </em>
  <span> likelier. I mean we’ve chasing this guy for nearly a decade.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A silent conversation passed briefly between Price, Katz, and Zeller. Shifting eyes and half-smiles told all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m just saying Jack owes me $20,” Beverly chuckled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack’s iron resolve crumbled into a defeated laugh. That was all Will needed as confirmation that Jack Crawford himself did just place a $20 bet on him. Bella’s eyes widened with shock and eyebrows twisted in disbelief. The couple exchanged challenging looks before returning their eyes to the company. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will’s eyes darted around ceaselessly at the table of faces holding in laughs. He made guesses on who’d crack first. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It has to be Price.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The silence was only building, becoming unbearable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You guys placed bets that I’d get married before we caught the Chesapeake Ripper. And, Jack, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>lost</span>
  </em>
  <span> to Bev?” Will interrogated. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We all did,” Jimmy sighed, looking at the smears of sauce on his plate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beverly wore a shit-eating grin as she stared at Will. “Hey, you should be happy. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> the one who had all the faith in you, Will.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will succumbed to an overwhelming rush of emotions. A cacophony of confusion, betrayal perhaps, but more so just amazement of how his gossip prone colleagues kept a secret up </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> long. His voice could only form a cracking laugh as the people began to join him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please tell me you know nothing about this,” Will directed at Hannibal who had not yet surrendered to the laughter.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal only tilted his head, looking at Will with some unreadable expression. “No, no, of course not. This was not prior information to me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The newlyweds set themselves to a staring contest. Yet, a singular narrowing of Will’s eyes was all it took for the other man to crack. An unmistakable tug at his lip when he broke eye contact. Hannibal readjusted in the booth to dab at his lips with a cloth napkin, eyes loosely closed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hannibal,” Will warned, something closer to a threat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The doctor opened one eye, posing his face in a mischievous wink. “I assure you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>my dear,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I had no prior knowledge of this little game.” His face was stoic but his rising tone and patronizing use of “my dear” broke the deception. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You too?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Hannibal confessed, no longer able to conceal his mirth. “Perhaps I should be grateful we signed the papers </span>
  <em>
    <span>before </span>
  </em>
  <span>this was let out. And also that Miss Lounds has not been permitted on the premises.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Unbelievable,” Will sulked. He sank into the cushion of the seat below him, reminiscing on the feeling. An uncanny similarity to being teased as a school boy, although lacking the genuine upset. “You are absolutely unbelievable.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid that’s why you married me. You’re quite unbelievable yourself, you know,” Hannibal teased, playful almost. It was increasingly apparent what fatherhood had done to Hannibal Lecter. His edges had softened drastically and he had grown a taste for more juvenile styles of comedy. Nothing too drastic, but he clearly didn’t see himself too refined for pranks anymore. He leaned in slightly, expecting a kiss.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hate that you’re right,” Will grumbled, loosening up and accepting the affection, closing off any further investigations for when they got home. Will never seemed to tire of Hannibal’s lips. Warm and inviting. They seemed to fit nearly seamlessly against his almost every time. From that impulsive first to the one hours ago during the reception, every single one felt right to him. An untiring zeal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Get a room!” Beverly chided lightheartedly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Later this evening,” Hannibal half-joked. His mouth ghosting at the edge of Will’s. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The day was suddenly over, night retiring now into the earliest hours of the morning. Voices hoarse and slurred with alcohol, collars loosened and ties slung lazily around shoulders. Everyone now different people from the ones simmering with excitement and shared joy in their seats during the service. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was time to go home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail had passed out in the back seat, snoring gently, clutching grocery store gift bags filled with things they definitely didn’t need. The suit Will wore slowly became more of a cloth prison than anything, and he wished nothing more than to shuck it off and stand under the glorious spray of Hannibal’s showers. He’d have to persist another thirty minutes more until they arrived at the home. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal watched absently, receding somewhere within his mind, as the road blurred past his eyes. He was mortal after all, his eyes threatened to shut every so often. The combined flavor of the appetizers and the wine lingered lightly on his tongue, and he feels discontent with the meal. Yes, he had overseen the catering, but it was simply unattainable to tend to his </span>
  <em>
    <span>diet</span>
  </em>
  <span> this time. He so wished to get away with such crimes, but the crawling anticipation of another murder from the Chesapeake Ripper placed Jack on edge. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Perhaps only inviting colleagues was a terrible idea.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Yet, there wasn’t a vast selection of people to invite considering they were a family composed of orphans and only children. Hannibal considered contacting his relatives in Japan, but he knew none of them had any interest in seeing him marry, another man at that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The trio welcomed the silence, conversation was not needed at this time. The tread of the tires on the road and the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops on the windows between breaths were sufficient. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will pulled into the garage, dropping Hannibal the keys. He wore a smile, worn at the edges, tired in the eyes. The former let himself recline a little into the seat before considering getting out, his limbs by this point weighed a billion pounds.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re married,” he says, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It seems we are,” Hannibal returns, sliding his hand onto Will’s knee. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They look at each other smiling wearily in the faint orange light, letting time still for them just a moment more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The home welcomed the family like an old friend, the faint scent of sandalwood and that intoxicatingly warm air. Will hauled in the presents, leaving them by the doorstep, as Hannibal attempted to get the half-asleep Abigail to get out the car. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do I have to?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I’m not allowing you to sleep in makeup, Abigail.” Much like his other tones, Hannibal’s paternal inflections were rehearsed perfectly. Still a bit formal, but it seems that was just him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s so wrong about it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Abigail, don’t argue with me. Come with me at once,” Hannibal scolded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If Will had the energy to laugh, he would. He seemed to draw amusement from seeing how undone the stiff-lipped doctor had become around Abigail. He marched her up the stairs to the restroom to remove the cosmetics on her face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The second his body crashed down into the bed was something close to serendipitous. The overwhelming relief of cool sheets against shower-warm skin was enough to lull him to sleep  then and there. Normally, Will would jump at the promise of proper sleep over anything, but he felt the need to check on Hannibal and Abigail. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reluctantly, he slipped out of the sheets and ventured down the hallway. He stopped at the end where Abigail’s bedroom door had been open just a crack. Will rapped his knuckles at the frame before peeking his head in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal sat at the foot of her bed, running a rose gold brush through her hair. A ritual he had done every night for years. Abigail had traded her dress for a pale blue nightgown and her eyes lazily glossed over the pages of a book. Something in Russian, at the very least Cyrillic. Will couldn’t tell the story from the picture on the cover, but he noted how much she had already completed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Am I intruding?” Will asked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not at all, come, join us.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will sat himself next to Abigail as she explained that she was reading an untranslated book of folklore. Only occasionally asking Hannibal what some words meant. He listened in amazement at how much she had learned. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After Hannibal set down the brush on the nightstand, he ran his hands a final time through Abigail’s hair, allowing for the dark strands to slip between his fingers gracefully. “Goodnight,” he mused. “Will, could you get the light?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Click.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now the only light poured in from the window. A murky indigo of moonlight and street lamps. Abigail shut her eyes on instinct, a peaceful resolve. It had struck Will how similar she had looked all those years ago in a medically induced coma. Though without the harsh sallow cast of those awful halogen lights in the hospital. The buzz of them still bothers Will immensely. Even then, she lay perfectly flat on her back, perfectly still. Blissfully unaware of all the surgeries needed to repair the damage to her external jugular and carotid. It was haunting in a way Will couldn’t explain. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It only took a few lines of the lullaby to successfully send Abigail into her dreams. Hannibal closed off the last verse with a kiss to her forehead before moving to the doorway. Will let go of her hand, standing to join his husband.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will and Hannibal fell together on top of the sheets, bodies feeling equally heavy as they melded together, welcoming the drowsiness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It had grown late and the following morning would sneak up on them if they’d keep up with any further activities. Hannibal brushed a hand through Will’s hair, still pleasantly damp from the shower. Will’s hands found themselves grasping at the fabric of Hannibal’s sweater, his nose pressed against the other’s chest. Breathing him in, comforted. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They laid there until all that was left was the synchronized sighs of breath and faint heartbeat. Both too exhausted to slip any snide remarks before drifting into sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Again, my apologies for the delay and constant time jumping lmao.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Dawn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will's brain is melting (only slightly)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Wake up, Will. Will?”</p><p> </p><p>“Abigail, leave your father be.”</p><p> </p><p>“But I need to ask him a question.”</p><p> </p><p>“How pertinent?”</p><p> </p><p>“Extremely. C’mon, Hannibal.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal abandons his pan in favor of checking on Will. The chorus of sniffing noses and eager yips follow behind him at a respectable distance as he walked into his husband’s room. Abigail is standing over the bed, hands gripping desperately onto Will’s shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>Abigail makes way for the doctor who wore a strikingly maternal expression. The apron wasn’t helping. He pressed a hand against Will’s forehead, watching him wince under the touch. His face is stuck in a frown, cold sweat pooling in his furrowed brow. His eyes lay glazed and barely open, the striking blue suddenly a murky green with exhaustion.  He’s warm, warmer than Hannibal would admit to Abigail. Then, the scent begins to roll in, only growing stronger with time. Warm and peppered. Overwhelming and almost sweet, <em> it’s the scent of sickness. </em> Hannibal suspects encephalitis, possibly from the new stray Will had absorbed into his collection. (Winston.) He then sees the value bottle of aspirin on the night stand, half open. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m afraid he may be coming down with a mild cold from the weather,” Hannibal announces. He sharply eyed the offending dog across the room. The stray looked back at him coyly, unaware of the problem he just caused.</p><p> </p><p>Abigail had long become distracted by the dogs, spoiling Harley with ear scratches and head pats. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you remember the last time he’s taken his aspirin?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, sorry,” Abigail mumbles in response, still preoccupied. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal looks at Will with a hollow sympathy before exiting to the kitchen. The pasta he had been boiling was almost al-dente. He shoos away Buster who had mistaken the cut of thigh for his treat, waiting eagerly at the counter. The dogs had a strange relationship with Hannibal. Always anticipating that he had a sausage link in hand, yet fearing him, keeping a distance. An immediate obedience they hadn’t even exhibited around Will. </p><p> </p><p>He hummed a tune absently as he sliced the meat and readied another pan. The muscle glistened against his knife, startlingly fresh. The “bull” it had come from was a particularly hotheaded cashier down at the market. Nobody noteworthy enough to display, the ugliness of his attitude only cemented his case solely as something to stock the refrigerator. </p><p> </p><p>Will had stirred to a foggy consciousness. Barely remembering his name, his head throbbed and his joints ached. He could feel the impending sinus blockage coming from a mile away. His mouth felt like it was filled with sand yet his body dripped in perspiration, matting hair to his forehead. </p><p> </p><p>“Abigail?” he asks weakly, dragging his hands over her face. </p><p> </p><p>“Will, you’re finally awake,” She replied, walking herself over to the foot of the bed and taking a seat.  “By the way, do you remember when you last took your aspirin?”</p><p> </p><p>“Who’s asking?”</p><p> </p><p>Abigail rolled her eyes. “It’s a total mystery.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, no I don’t my best guess was,” Will trailed. “What time is it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Eleven-thirty, Hannibal’s making pasta for lunch.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, something like three hours ago.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, I’ll tell him that later. He said you’re probably coming down with a cold.”</p><p> </p><p>Will grunted as a response, still swirling in his own misery. “Then why are you in here? Don’t want you catching my cold,” he admonished, the traces of his accent cracking through. He immediately found himself disappointed at <em> just </em> how much he’s starting to sound like his father. </p><p> </p><p>He reached at the nightstand for his half empty glass of water for a sip. It tasted dusty and ran thickly down his throat; that was partially his fault for leaving it there uncovered for hours. </p><p> </p><p>Abigail watched him with an expecting smile. Her eyes pierced into him, she was far better at eye contact. Will occasionally found himself avoiding her stare. “Can’t you ask your dad? The man’s a walking encyclopedia,” he sighed.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, yes, I could, but it’s about fish. It’s for my biology project,” she stated matter-of-factly. Instinctually, her hands were grasping at the scarf ever-present around her neck. It was no longer that same amethyst one Will had first seen her wear, it was a paisley printed cashmere. Hannibal had randomly replaced her old one with this shortly after the formation of their relationship sans explanation. Will didn’t have any reason to question it. </p><p> </p><p>Will’s resolve softened at the mention of fish, and her insistence that the information had to be from him was endearing. “After lunch okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Abigail nodded sharply in confirmation. Will had dismissed her off the bed as he walked over to his dresser to retrieve a new set of clothes. </p><p> </p><p>He lugged himself to the bathroom, hoping a shower would wash the headache down the drain. The familiarity of his bathroom helped ease some of the tension in his shoulders. Yet, he felt something was lacking; too many stays with Hannibal had rendered him a bit spoiled. This would have to suffice. </p><p> </p><p>He locked the door and let the water run as hot as the pipes could manage. He watched as the room filled with a humid steam, coating the mirror and blurring his form. The clothes peeled from his body like a second skin, damp and heavy. He discards them on the neglected tile, feeling the air prick at his skin as he climbs into the shower. </p><p> </p><p>Most would consider that water scalding, but it was just enough to pull Will back into his body. He lets the heat engulf him, focusing on the feeling of how the muscles tense and relax under his skin. He squeezes the contents of the nearest bottle into his hands and lathers it into his hair, hoping it wouldn’t run into his eyes. He takes more of that, not checking to see if it was body wash or shampoo (to him, they did the exact same thing anyways) and starts at his shoulders working down. Clearing himself of the final remnants of sickness that clung to his skin. </p><p> </p><p>Will emerged from the bathroom to meet his family at the table, hair still dripping rivulets of water. His seat at the table beckoned him, a steaming pasta dish waiting for him. The dogs were presumably let out by Abigail, their distant woofs happily making their way through the screen door. </p><p> </p><p>“How are you feeling?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Of course the immediate ambush.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Fine, head’s killing me. Nothing new,” Will answered, picking at a cherry tomato with his fork. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you planning on going into work on Monday?” Hannibal asked, concern rising in his throat. “I won’t permit Jack-”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m good to work, I promise. I’ll get over it,” Will dismissed between bites.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal laid a hand over Will’s forearm. His mouth opened, <em> probably to scold him, </em> but resigned to a frown. </p><p> </p><p>Stopping him from continuing, was the usefulness of Will’s ailment. He had come extremely close to seeing Abigail assist Hannibal butcher the man in the shed. With the associated mental deterioration, it would be far easier to slip past unnoticed. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry, my beloved. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Will didn’t notice when Hannibal’s hand left his forearm, just that he was sipping his water with that hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Abigail, what’s that project about again?” Will asked plainly.</p><p> </p><p>“A local ecosystem. There’s nothing but pigeons in Baltimore, so I wanna do it on the lake out back. Hence, the fish,” She explained between bites. </p><p> </p><p>Will smiled down at his half-empty plate. “I’ll take you out on the boat tonight. Is that alright?” He asked. “Is that alright?” he repeated, this time directed at his husband. </p><p> </p><p>“Of course, it should supply me an ample amount of time to purchase some groceries,” he replied merrily. When Will looked away, he shot Abigail a certain look, one she returned. </p><p> </p><p>After dinner, Will changed into more lake appropriate clothes and knocked back another few tablets before taking Abigail out on his boat.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Flashes, blurs almost. The sight of blood and bodies, mangled beyond repair, all merging together. Consulting felt like another never-ending headache, the more esoteric they got, the worse it was.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And all Will could do was take more damn aspirin and suck it up. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t have the heart to tell Jack that the dull fever and seemingly chronic headache was unbearable. It wasn’t like it would do much if he did or not. </p><p> </p><p>He stared up at the brutish display in front of him. Piles upon piles of bodies stacked into some horrible approximation of a totem pole. He drew a foggy breath, letting the cold air freeze his airways as he thought. </p><p> </p><p>Piece by piece, body by body, deconstructed. This display is sloppy, rushed, a display more of quantity than quality. The work is painstaking, a bitch to do quietly, under cover of moonlight and general lack of tourists on the beach. Freezing air and shivering hands.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This is my design. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Will opened his eyes, expecting to still be out there, staring at the totem pole. Yet he found himself warm. Inside somewhere, no longer inhaling icicles and so cold that the coat and gloves couldn’t save him. </p><p> </p><p>No.</p><p> </p><p>The wild whistle of the wind has suddenly become the crackle of a fireplace. And the corpses are replaced by a living person. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal. </p><p> </p><p>Will shook his head. How did he get here? <em> When </em> did he get here?</p><p> </p><p>“Hannibal?” he asked weakly.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you know where you are, Will?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’m in your office. But that doesn’t answer how the hell I got here.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal leaned forward in his chair, it looked like he was restraining himself from reaching out. “You came here yourself, after work.”</p><p> </p><p>“I did?”</p><p> </p><p>“Will, how much do you remember, and how much time do you believe has passed?”</p><p> </p><p>The profiler reclined defensively, closing off his posture. “How much do I remember? Well I was at the scene this morning, a <em> totem pole </em> of bodies. And, and I… Yeah. There’s nothing else. As for time, who knows. Each memory I have seems to be spreading farther and father out. I blink and I’m somewhere else.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal frowned into his notebook, the scratch of his pen slowing with every word. He then looks at Will, another unreadable expression. Imperceptible beyond the downturned corners of his lips and a furrowed brow. </p><p> </p><p>Will turns his head towards the window, seeing that it was now in fact dark outside. The sky a hazy gray. “What time is it?” he asks finally, the words coming out like a held breath. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal checks his watch, ticking just out of sync with the clock on his desk and the grandfather upstairs. “Seven-fourteen. Will, can you do something for me?” He asks, snapping back into the warm tone he used when comforting Will at night. </p><p> </p><p>“Anything,” Will agrees, easily. He had grown soft to requests, their relationship was the furthest from professional, but it never was to begin with. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to need you to draw a clock, and state your name, and where you are.”</p><p> </p><p>Normally, Will would bite back, apprehensively asking why he’d need to do this; but he held his tongue. He accepted the swatch of paper and Hannibal’s pen. The paper is smooth, velvety, something Hannibal would refer to as “hot pressed” <em> whatever that meant. </em> His pen was of similar staggering quality, heavy in his hand and smooth. The type of smooth that comes from painstaking polishing and not the smooth of cast plastic or bent metal. </p><p> </p><p>Will set the pen to the page, immediately noticing the ebony ink bleed out effortlessly. “My name is Will Graham. It is seven-sixteen p.m. and I am in Baltimore, Maryland.” He felt a little stupid saying it out loud. He trusted Hannibal enough to comply to his silly prompt, drawing a basic analog clock. Nothing special. </p><p> </p><p>He handed Hannibal the piece of paper and the pen to which the other man regarded, the curve of his mouth twisting the longer he looked.</p><p> </p><p>The doctor entirely refrained from telling his husband that the clock was a Picasso. It may come off as dry humor, yet the comment was justified. The clock seemed to melt off the page, numbers pooled at the bottom right corner, the face a distorted oval. The hands of the clock pointed aimlessly, nowhere near the intended time. Hannibal slid the paper into the margin of his notebook. He gave Will a “very good, thank you” as he lost himself in notes.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The spatial neglect has already set in. The progression of Will’s encephalitis is typical. It is likely he will experience seizures, further episodes of dissociation and other forms of cognitive impairment. It seems like his fever has lessened due to frequent dosage of over the counter medications such as aspirin and acetaminophen.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Side note- frequently check on any injuries and be weary of situations where he may start bleeding. Injuries involving the cardiovascular system may prove fatal due to the blood-thinning effects of his current medications.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Monitor his symptoms over time and only plan to exploit the infirmity if necessary.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The silence had grown awkward between the two. Their session had run past its normal time for a Thursday and there was an unspoken agreement to end it. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll call Abigail down and begin preparing dinner. Go get some rest, Will.”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright,” Will replied blandly. He didn’t know what to think of the exercise he just completed, but the weight of fatigue was excuse enough to let it go. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal hummed as he stirred the aromatics into the sizzling butter on the stove. Abigail ghosted behind him, watching every calculated move he made. She had just finished cutting up carrots and bell pepper. </p><p> </p><p>“Hannibal,” She called, tugging on the tie of his apron. “The vegetables are done.”</p><p> </p><p>“Magnificent, bring them here,” he mused, watching the onions brown to a specific hue. </p><p> </p><p>Abigail clumsily lifted the wooden board from the island to the counter, sticking out her tongue in concentration. She took all of her strength into securing the almost comically large knife under her thumb as she brought it to Hannibal’s side. </p><p> </p><p>Lecter twisted to evaluate what has been done to the vegetables. They were a bit rough around the edges, but a vast improvement from her previous attempts. </p><p> </p><p>“How was school today?” The doctor asked.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine. They think I should move up a grade. Mrs. Watson called my writing precocious. She asked me if I plagiarized on that last essay.”</p><p> </p><p>“Precocious is good. I’m happy that they’re acknowledging your talents. If you’d like me to back your acceleration, I’d be honored to arrange that with your teachers,” Hannibal replied, a possessive pride coloring his voice. </p><p> </p><p>Abigail pulled herself up on the counter, appreciating the smells wafting off the pan. “I’m not sure I want to do that. I think that’ll only worsen the isolation I experience. Besides, it seems I’m a pain in the ass for every teacher.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where’d you learn to talk like that?” Hannibal snipped, apropos to the profanity. He wasn’t opposed to swearing. He regarded it as valid, but banal nonetheless. Definitely something he didn’t teach to Abigail in the last five years he had been raising her. </p><p> </p><p>“Will.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. <em> Of course he did. </em> “Abigail, I’m not one to censor your expression through language but expletives should be used selectively.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, and Will <em> selects </em> to use them all the time,” she quipped, swaying side to side on the marble. </p><p> </p><p>A laugh caught itself at the base of her father’s throat. <em> Well she isn’t wrong. </em> “Abigail,” he started. Hannibal quickly realized he couldn’t continue without bursting into laughter. Instead he elected into sliding the kidney meat from a separate cutting board into the pot. He took a second to admire how rich and irony the color of the meat was. “Just because he’s your father doesn’t mean he’s a paragon role model.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah and you aren’t either. I think I learned that pretty early on. I don’t think having <em> two </em> serial killer cannibal dads can really change my stance on parenting,” Abigail boasted. She wore a self-satisfied smirk as Hannibal stopped briefly in front of the stove, wordless. </p><p> </p><p>He had already lost, no basis to refute any of Abigail’s sarcasms. He rarely found himself speechless, when he did, it always filled him with a familiar fervor. One very rarely sparked by others in his life. The knowledge that he could competently protect the mind of the one person he could satiated something within him. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal indulged himself with a laugh. “I have nothing to dispute your point.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Go call down Will. It’s time for dinner.”</p><p> </p><p>“Isn’t he still sick?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, sick people require sustenance. Now go.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yes I am a "Winston caused Will's encephalitis" truther. Also this will most likely be the only update for a while as my spring break comes to a close and school becomes increasingly more strenuous. ://///</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Morrow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A trip back to Minnesota ft. Dysfunctional marriage arguments</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>literally I did so much unnecessary research about encephalitis and related epilepsy for like those two paragraphs about Will's seizure lmaooo</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> “You don’t know what you saw,” was no longer enough. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Their night had become more and more strained, Will on his second glass of whiskey, but more drunk on suspicion. Abigail observed, wordlessly, barely flinching at her fathers raising their voices. Altercations of this nature between the two almost always teetered on becoming physical. Nothing about their family life had dulled the violence that constantly surrounded them, their fights reflected that. </p><p> </p><p>“Will, please calm down.”</p><p> </p><p>“Calm down? How are you going to tell me to calm down, Hannibal? Not when I saw you washing an obscene amount of fucking blood down our drain at two in the god-forsaken morning.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. “Can’t this be <em> any </em>night other than the one before our departure to Minnesota. Will, we have a flight to catch in approximately six hours and a meeting with Dr. Bloom prior to the trip to the airport,” he delivered, maintaining his usual startling composure.</p><p> </p><p>“The plans can wait until you can refute what I just saw. I’ve put up with your <em> frankly </em> strange eating habits but I know even internal organs don’t come in so much blood it coats up to your elbows.” Will circled around the chair in the living room tensely. He quickly swallowed the contents of his glass, letting the alcohol burn its way down. </p><p> </p><p>“Abigail, go to bed. I’d like you to be rested for the flight tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>“It appears <em> Doctor Lecter </em> and I agree. Go to bed,” Will groaned. The use of the title felt like an insult at this point. It had been years since Will grown accustomed to using his first name, a symbol of the dropping of the final barrier of professionalism. Its reuse was a defensive act, a spiteful, sharp one at that.</p><p> </p><p>The two waited in silence until Abigail’s footsteps had disappeared entirely. Tension in the room had grown palpable, asphyxiating even. Hannibal stared directly at Will who could muster to look at everything but him. </p><p> </p><p>“Like I said, that incident earlier was an intense misunderstanding. The communication between me and the butcher-”</p><p> </p><p>“The butcher you’ve been seeing for fifteen years? And he got your order wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>“He is human. Errors are bound to happen.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Will glared bitterly at his hand that gripped tighter on the glass. The shadows from the dim lamplight dulled the shine of the ring on his finger. He felt like tearing it off, throwing it somewhere, never seeing it again. He’s never hated a piece of metal more. </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, his vision was tunneling, and the room began to swim in a sickening way. His lips parted slightly to say something but he abstained from doing so. A sharp pain struck through his skull. It almost felt like an immediate punishment for his anger. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal rushed to catch Will. Nearly stumbling over the ottoman as he came to Will’s side. He immediately placed one hand around his waist, the other on his forehead. <em> He was burning up. </em> From the convulsions alone, Hannibal concluded it was a seizure. This was not proper protocol or first aid, but Hannibal was acting on reflex. His concerns laid more in making sure Will didn’t crash into the coffee table and injure himself more. </p><p> </p><p>Will’s encephalitis was still within the acute phase, making the following epilepsy more than plausible. <em> Expected, actually. </em> Hannibal suspected that Will had suffered from smaller, absence seizures in the past few weeks but this was concerning. His first myoclonic seizure (or the first one Hannibal had witnessed first hand.) He stared at his watch, timing the episode, the weight of Will’s body straining on his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p><em> Thirty-five seconds. </em> </p><p> </p><p>It was nothing to be hospitalized over. <em> Not yet at least. </em> He sat Will down in the chair before running upstairs to grab a towel. He ran into Abigail sitting at the top, her figure eerily glowing in the sallow light from the moon. </p><p> </p><p>“Abigail, we told you to go to bed,” Hannibal scolded.</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” she said, shrinking in. “I just,” she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I just wanted to know if Will really saw the body,” Her voice diminished entirely by that last word. </p><p> </p><p>“No. Thankfully not.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay. What happened to him?”</p><p> </p><p>“He had a mild seizure,” Hannibal stated, masking his agitation as best he could.</p><p> </p><p>“Why aren’t we going to the hospital right now?” Abigail worried, looking up at the shadowy figure of her father. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I said it was mild.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was in this moment, Abigail had finally understood just how severe her adoptive father’s face was. Even amidst a kill, while skinning the bodies of civilians, removing their organs while they were still breathing, she had never considered his visage more frightening than she did now. All her life, she didn’t see it, yet the moonlight made it abundantly clear. It stuck harshly to the high planes of his cheekbones and forehead. The deep shadow of his eyesockets made him appear, to Abigail’s tired eyes, a floating skull, <em> death himself </em>. The sternness in which he delivered those words only heightened her terror. Sharp chills down her spine were reason enough to scare her back to bed, her feet bounding down the hall frantically. </p><p> </p><p>This was the first night on record in which Hannibal hadn’t attended to her bedside and sung her to sleep in years. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The flight was, less than ideal. Even in first class (courtesy of Hannibal, <em> of course </em>) the cries of a particularly ill-disciplined child was nothing anybody wanted to hear on the four hour departure. Yet, they made it in Duluth in one piece. Abigail and Will had taken similar approaches to the trip, knocking out on both the flight and the ride to Abigail’s former home. </p><p> </p><p>Will’s sleep was noticeably shallow, more dissociating with his eyes closed than anything, but Hannibal let him be nonetheless. Alana and Hannibal busied themselves discussing logistics and speeding through a book of crosswords they had initially brought for Abigail. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal tipped the cab driver and dragged his husband and daughter out of the vehicle, taking care of their respective backpacks. </p><p> </p><p>Abigail considered her house with a blank expression. No resounding nostalgia, just a bare recognition of the structure. She held Alana’s hand, twirling a lock of hair that managed to escape from the braid with the other. </p><p> </p><p>The house had been abandoned, left vacant for years. It was still a crime scene, Will brought his badge just in case they needed proof that they could enter the grounds. Painted in now faded black letters on the garage ,“CANNIBALS”. Will grimaced, finding the act disrespectful, and also tampering with evidence. Which ever outraged delinquents or entitled neighbors had done that should’ve been fined substantially. </p><p> </p><p>The adults had discussed with Jack. Perhaps taking Abigail back to Minnesota was not the best idea, yet it suited his agenda, so they needed to. </p><p> </p><p>Air felt heavier here. It still felt like a place of grieving, one which had yet to be sanitized for resale. Will traces the outline of Mrs. Hobbs’ body on the front porch with his eyes, the image of her bleeding out suddenly much more vivid. </p><p> </p><p>“Is that where my mom died?” Abigail asks, the stain soaked and worn into the concrete. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Will confirmed.</p><p> </p><p>“Shouldn’t there have been a chalk or tape outline?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, no they only do that if the person is alive and needs to be taken to the hospital before they can finish their job.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>Entering the house felt even more unreal. A moment frozen in time, five going on six years only felt like weeks. A thick trace of dust had settled on every surface, plastic tarps still covered the couch and the scent of disinfectant lingered in the air. All things had been packed into cardboard boxes labeled “Evidence”. </p><p> </p><p>The four stepped into the kitchen, still collectively at a loss for words. This was <em> the </em> kitchen. The kitchen Will shot Garret Jacob Hobbs ten times to his death. The kitchen Hannibal had made an untraceable call to. The kitchen where Abigail at barely six years old had her throat slit open in a half-ditched attempt to kill her. <em> To spend the golden ticket. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Doctor Bloom gave Abigail’s hand a squeeze. “How are you feeling now? If you get overwhelmed, we’ll go on a walk, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Abigail nodded. “I’m okay. Really, I only remember some of it. Not much, just that it was morning when we got that call. I don’t think I answered the phone, my mom did. When the FBI showed up, it was too late for her,” Abigail recited monotonously. Alana took mental notes on her desensitization. “Is that where my blood was?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Will answered reluctantly. </p><p> </p><p>Her eyes never left the spot on the floor we she was told she nearly bled out on, had it not been for Hannibal. She narrowed in on the parts in the grout where traces of blood lingered. Abigail could only think about how apathetic the clean-up crew had gotten by that point. She wrinkled her nose at the sight. <em> I would never be that careless. </em> Abigail had been careless before, when she contaminated a display. She remembers what happened after. The anger she harbored towards Hannibal for nearly two months after he had promptly discarded her scarf. He did purchase several to replace it, but Alana had given it to her that first night in the hospital. She had to watch him burn the last of her former life. Her comfort item. <em> That was the price for carelessness.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Will looked around inconstantly, trying not to feel the weight of memories on his shoulders. The Chesapeake Ripper. Garret Jacob Hobbs. Abigail <strike>Hobbs</strike> <em>Lecter-Graham.</em> Last night. <em>Last night’s dispute. </em>All of it. He felt his chest tighten. He tried finding solace in Hannibal, yet he seemed too vacant to notice. He looked caught up in observation.</p><p> </p><p>The living room appeared less like a crime scene. Abigail sat herself next to Alana, frowning at the crinkling of the plastic. Will took his seat opposite to her.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are we here again?” Abigail inquired, voice muffled by the fabric of her scarf. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, we’re here because <em> we </em> agreed with Jack Crawford that taking you home would be a good idea. It’ll help Will confirm a suspicion he’s had in his consulting,” Alana admitted, still careful about her words. Her eyes darted between Abigail’s fathers, hoping what she said did not cross any unwanted lines. </p><p> </p><p>Will swallowed thickly, his gaze was focused on the rim of his glasses. “Dr. Bloom is correct.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, so are we going to recreate the crime?” Abigail’s eyes lit up an unnerving amount. A smile worked its way onto her face, yet it didn’t seem to feel quite natural. She pointed at Will, “You be my dad, well, Garrett Jacob Hobbs.” Then to Alana, “You be my mom.” Finally, her head turned towards Hannibal, who had been standing off to the side. <em> “And you be the man on the phone.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Abigail,” Will chided, but she wasn’t listening. </p><p> </p><p>Her eyes were locked onto Hannibal. He was looking back, his lip twisted imperceptibly. He had not told her anything about his role with the Hobbs case beyond he was there to save her life. His heart seemingly skipped a beat as Abigail’s eyes seemed to insinuate something, something along the lines that she knew he called the house. That the intelligence and deduction skills Hannibal had instilled in her had come to betray him. <em> How did she figure that out?  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Abigail that’s enough, now,” Will muttered, extending his hand towards his daughter. The act reeled her back in, her posture sinking and her gaze no longer placing Hannibal on the spot. The room collectively let out a breath, resuming their prior conversation. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Alana had taken Abigail for a walk, hoping that some more memories would get jogged. Hannibal took no issue knowing she was accompanied by a psychiatric professional. Will on the other hand, was allowing his anxieties to consume him. </p><p> </p><p>“So you’re just going to let her out like that?” Will asked, taking a swig of water from the bottle he took from the plane. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t see why not,” Hannibal replied. He sensed the tension from last night had followed them on their trip. “She’s with Alana.”</p><p> </p><p>“But the people here, they could hurt her. I doubt the Minnesota Shrike has disappeared from their mind, it definitely hasn’t left mine, Hannibal. They could see her and, and- I don’t know. I just don’t want our daughter getting hurt,” Will lamented.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal grimaced at the thought. The thought that perhaps people would recognize Abigail as the same child she was years ago. “Will, it’s been years since we returned Abigail here to Minnesota. There is an extremely low chance of her getting recognized as anybody but <em> our </em> daughter. Besides, they are more likely to mistake her as Alana’s child if she is mistaken as anybody at all.”</p><p> </p><p>Will hated how <em> right </em> Hannibal was. He opened his mouth, trying to think of something to refute him. Yet it there was seemingly nothing to argue, but he wanted to argue, to be right for once. Instead, he resigned himself to a scowl and finished the rest of his drink. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal caught sight of the restlessness of Will’s leg, looking between it and his face. “Perhaps we could take an excursion of our own. The most useful location on these premises is the antler room. Unless you would find that upsetting.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I’m fine, let’s go.”</p><p> </p><p>Not another word had been exchanged as the couple made their way out to the shed. Will in particular feared saying anything without it escalating to another fight. He was probably walking with a murderer. <em> It’s fine, this is fine. </em>Hannibal stared straight ahead, noticing just how far the scent of industrial cleaners permeated the area. His face was set to its emotionless default.</p><p> </p><p>Will struggled with the latch to the shed for a minute before it released. Stale air rushed out the structure, giving way to Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ nest. It was stripped bare. The wall of knives had become a wall of bare metal hooks. Every surface was sanitized and smooth, the only indication of the passage of time was the dust suspended in the light from the windows.</p><p> </p><p>Will took in a deep breath and shut his eyes. He wasn’t thinking about Hobbs. He didn’t <em> want </em> to think about Hobbs. He thought about the copycat, the Chesapeake Ripper. How much his design was nothing like the killer that once resided here. The bodies treated in this room were not treated like the one abandoned in the field. <em> Elise Nichols was loved. Cassie Boyle was not.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I quickly snap Cassie Boyle’s neck. Before all nerve endings in her body die, I remove her lungs with surgical precision. I then gore her on the antlers of the stag’s head. I do not regard her in any way. She is meant to be found here. She is nothing more than livestock. This is my design. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was a familiar one, steps he retraced years ago. The copycat, he was sure that it was the Ripper. Everything about it. Will thought a little harder, Jack’s words began to encroach on his headspace. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Abigail Lecter-Graham is a suspect.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His hands began to shake as that dreadful conversation replayed in his head.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Jack she was barely six at the time! My daughter had no hand in her father’s crimes.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “We don’t know how much she remembers. Will, we need to consider all options, if she was present when Garret Jacob Hobbs killed his victims, who knows if the Ripper- Which you’re sure is the copycat and the man who called the house?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m positive.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Alright. If she was present then, there’s no telling that she may have had a hand in letting the copycat get away.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Jack I think that’s a bit much.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Children can be taught how to lie and manipulate at any age. Don’t let that cloud your judgement! Reports from Dr. Bloom are evidence enough.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What do you see, Will?” Hannibal’s voice floated over his head from behind. He reached a cautious hand towards his husband.</p><p> </p><p>Will snapped around haphazardly, almost tripping over his feet. He blinked rapidly as his chest heaved with anxiety. “Jack thinks Abigail had, had some kind of hand in the Shrike murders, maybe even the copycat!” Exhaustion wore the edges of his words thin. “You don’t believe him right? It can’t be her, she was no part of his design,” Will struggled. His eyes fixed onto the toes of his boots and his hands began to tremor. His eyebrows worried together with each passing second. He was more worried about how <em> correct </em> Jack’s suggestions might’ve been than his current distrust of Hannibal.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal extended his hand further, an offer for Will to take. Will reluctantly reaches out his own, wincing slightly at the contact. The other man pulls him closer, into an actual embrace. It seems like ages since they’ve held each other last, but Will relents, accepting the embrace just this once. He almost feels like crying, but this was vulnerable enough. </p><p> </p><p>“I would never suspect Abigail of anything. From my assessments of her, she had shown no signs or recollection of involvement in the Shrike cases.” Hannibal knew he was lying, but he spoke softly, voice resonating barely over the frequency of his heartbeat. Abigail had an excellent memory, she knew how her father had lured and killed women, but he obviously withheld. “As for the copycat, it is irrational to believe that she had any sort of correlation.” That was true. </p><p> </p><p>They stood together, letting the sounds of synchronized breathing being the only thing that filled the silence in the shed. Hannibal’s words were reassurance enough, enough for Will to momentarily forget his suspicions. After all, he was the closer parent. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The cot beneath him groaned with every movement. Will’s face twitched as he began to regain wakefulness. He pats around him, feeling sheets and the outline of Hannibal to his side. Not the creek behind the Hobbs house. He was next to Hannibal, not slitting Abigail’s throat. She was sleeping quietly in the other bed. Will shifts around in the sheets to see the red blur of numbers on the alarm clock. <em> Fuck. </em> He can’t read it. </p><p> </p><p>He reaches his hand out, hesitant at first, checking to see if his fingers still look real. <em> Sure. </em> Waking Hannibal was not the best idea, not right now, at least. He didn’t really want to talk to him anyways. Will’s throat releases something akin to a growl, low and guttural, rough around the edges, and simply exhausted. Cold air envelops his legs, tugging at him as he sluggishly pulls himself to the bathroom. The light attacks his eyes and the sink doesn’t flow like the one at home. <em> Good enough. </em> He revels in the feeling of lukewarm water on his face before rising and looking at himself in the mirror. Beads of water clung onto his hair, and he looked damp overall. He didn’t care what was sweat or water. </p><p> </p><p>Will’s tired, sure, but he has no idea how long he’s been staring at himself. How long he’s just been loitering in the bathroom, counting tiles, slamming back some more medications to quiet the throbbing in his head, whatever else he can do to stall. At this rate, his eyes are never going to close. </p><p> </p><p>“Will?”</p><p> </p><p>He wants to scream, but doesn’t. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s silhouette ghosts behind him, a cold shadow at his back. Arms wrap around his waist, a nose pressed against his nape. Hannibal’s breaths hum against his skin, lips whispering incoherent things. </p><p> </p><p>That scream threatens to escape Will again, but he doesn’t want to wake the entire town. Instead, he lets out some kind of perturbed grunt. He tries to worm away once and the contact is gone. No longer a mouse being strangled by a python. </p><p> </p><p>“Will, it’s late, there are only a few hours before we return to the airport. Come back to be-”</p><p> </p><p>“No. No, I don’t care for going back to sleep.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal wants to pry, ask what he saw to wake him at this hour. “But-”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll just get dressed and go down the hall for coffee or something.” He’s aware how rude he’s being. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal scowls. He considers grabbing Will, physically carrying him to the bed. But that was far to brutish. He also didn’t want to engage in a cat fight with his husband at four in the morning. Abigail was sleeping in this room as well. They both knew better than to wake her.  </p><p> </p><p>“Suit yourself,” Hannibal murmurs bitterly. </p><p> </p><p>Will only knows he’s gone when the door is suddenly closed. Hannibal never makes noise, he slips in and out unnoticed. Will noticed this about him early on, he always closed doors as silently as humanly possible. His steps were soundless when he wanted them to be.  The delusions of insomnia begin to claw at Will. He ruminates far too long on why that might be. <em> He could be a killer. No, he’s just courteous. If Hannibal has blood on his hands, who’s is it? How much is there? And does that mean it’s all over mine as well? </em> </p><p> </p><p>Will turns on the sink, reaching for the soap instinctively. <em> He has to wash them clean. </em> But it appears as though the faucet ran red, the water was not water. The warmth felt unsettlingly like body temperature. <em> Like blood. </em>He tries blinking hard a couple of times, shaking his head. </p><p> </p><p>Will lets himself curse under his breath. Profanity was strictly prohibited around Hannibal, around Abigail. He could afford himself this. The profiler stepped away from the counter, finally. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Maybe those suspicions from years ago were correct. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hm I once again have no clue how to feel abt this chapter :///</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Sundown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A field trip! ...to the BSHCI</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wanna say this happens like... a week from the last chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Will blinks as hard as he can, trying not to think about the arduous day he has in front of him. The late morning sun stings his eyes and the lecture being given by the teachers does nothing but bore him. He’s standing at the back of the room, surrounded by a couple other, frankly vapid, parents. He doesn’t know any of them personally but could make easy work of picking their lives apart. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abigail sits on the carpet at his feet, thumbs tucked under the straps of her backpack. She stares at nothing and is barely listening. Next to her is a friend of hers that Will has only seen in passing. She only had one friend, Marissa Schurr. She looked a lot like Abigail, except for her hair being unruly and her eyes a hazel rather than crystal blue. Her skin was red with sun exposure and she dressed in far more practical clothes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, as for bathroom breaks-” The teacher stops talking as a rumbling of footsteps approach the classroom. A couple of boys crane their heads towards the noise, their jaws drop into silent screams of awe. Suddenly everyone’s eyes are trapped on the window next to the door. A couple of officers and Jack Crawford. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jack fucking Crawford, can’t this day get any worse?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will crumples in on himself and suddenly thinks that visiting whatever shitty museum they were going to actually seemed appealing. Suddenly, Will wants to go and listen to underpaid teens and overeager middle aged women show him around obviously reprinted paintings. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can I help you?” One of the other teacher pipes out. She looked a few good seconds away from passing out. Her face was pale and she was trembling slightly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack gives her a quick lookover, he reaches into his jacket and retrieves his badge. “Jack Crawford, FBI.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The statement of his title elicits gasps from the room. Everybody is on edge except for Will. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes meet Will’s. Or, he thinks they did, Will is staring at the frame of his glasses. Will parts his lips to say something, now was not a good time to be hauled unwillingly onto another crime scene.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will Graham,” Jack addresses. He swallows slowly, as if to settle his stomach. “Will Graham, you are under arrest.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” Will scoffs. He lets the feeling in the air settle in a little longer. He bites his tongue after realizing that Jack was dead serious. Will knows better than to resist, especially in a school building crawling with kids. He swallows harshly and looks down at Abigail. She looks back at him, neutral. Will gave her a concerned look, trying to find horror in her gaze. Though finding none at all, placid waters when there was a storm in the forecast. He brushes it off as a mere coping mechanism she has been taught. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Always so brave.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He crouches down to hug her a last time, “Don’t be afraid, I’ll be okay,” he whispers. He wants to believe that this would end quickly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Graham, we don’t have all day,” Crawford droned.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will clicked his tongue in irritation before complying- he wasn’t stupid enough to resist- willingly getting cuffed and dragged off. In dead silence. When Will is marched away, whispers and gossip flood the room. People were mortified as to what </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> caused such a scene in the walls of a fifth grade classroom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marissa placed her hand over Abigail’s. “Your dad’s gonna be okay, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure he is,” Abigail whispers back. She gives Marissa a false smile. Everybody probably thought she was confused or afraid. </span>
  <em>
    <span>But Abigail knew this was going to happen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal waits at the door, he is exactly five minutes early.  He is slightly startled when it opens abruptly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Hannibal,” Bedelia greets almost unenthusiastically. In her hand she holds two glasses, one squared with a slender stem and the other more rounded. She knows by now that Hannibal prefers red over white. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The doctor nods and slides past her. Her perfume is overbearing, floral notes drowned in musk and vanilla. He assumes his usual seat in the office and waits again for the clicking of her heels to come up behind him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bedelia Du Maurier had not practiced psychiatry in over a year. Her only client was Hannibal Lecter, he still paid her handsomely and it was her only true incentive to keep talking to the man. She was thoroughly convinced no amounts of psychoanalysis or mere talking could truly fix the several deep rooted issues within this man. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She took a sip before settling into the chair. “What would you like to discuss during our session today?” She avoided looking directly at him. “I am up to date with the news regarding your husband, so I presume you would like to open with that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am,” Hannibal paused. He cast his glance downwards and feigned distress. “I am still in an immense state of shock with regards to Will. In our several years of collaboration and the nearly two in our marriage- The anniversary of our nuptial day is actually approaching. I have never observed homicidal behaviors from Will, yet the discovery of evidence in our home is, </span>
  <em>
    <span>heartbreaking,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Hannibal sighs. He reaches for the silk handkerchief to prepare for the climax of his performance. He looks blankly at his knee, remembering the taste of his own blood on his tongue, the prick of the fishing hook on his thumb. Tying flecks of bone, hair, tissue into Will’s unfinished lures while he was away at work. He remembers almost perfectly the rage that pricked across his skin, almost searing. The doctor never hoped that he would get to that point. Yet it had to be done. Will got too close. Will </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> too close.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will nearly saw the body of Hannibal's previous victim. His hunches were all angled towards his husband. Hannibal had to swallow his humanity to accept that it was not safe to keep him so near.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The stern woman across from him was momentarily lost in the rim of her glass, savoring the cold alcohol. She licked her lips as an indicator that she was still thinking, mauve lipstick bleeding outside of her lipline. “They say that relationships often begin in a honeymoon phase. Viewing the world through rose colored lenses, all of the red flags appear to just be flags. I do not believe you have worn these rhetorical glasses, Hannibal. You are a much more perceptive man.” Dr. Du Maurier crossed and uncrossed her legs, never sitting comfortably in her chair. “I have been aware of your obsession with Will Graham for a very long time. And I believe you have picked apart this man enough. What slipped?” The question was simply to buy time. Bedelia wasn’t sure how deep Hannibal had dug his hands into Will’s mind. However, she wasn’t entirely convinced that his husband was actually a mass murderer without Hannibal knowing. She should be the first to know that Hannibal was a danger if he got too close.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>However, </span>
  </em>
  <span>deciphering his lies were useless at this point. Bedelia is retired. No higher ups to report to, not enough reason to care. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Internally, Hannibal found himself incredibly amused. He could almost feel Bedelia dodging questions, snaking her way around the truth she feared so greatly. His façade, however, couldn’t crack in the slightest. He still had to play his sorrowful spouse charade until the pieces moved into place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dr. Du Maurier knew she was a pawn.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps I had greatly overestimated how much Will wanted to be involved with Abigail. From the start I noticed his paternal behavior around her and I thought that was an opportunity. An opportunity I jumped at haphazardly. I just wanted to give Abigail a complete after what I feel like I have taken from her.” The doctor’s eyes glazed over with tears at the mention of his daughter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bedelia absently took down some notes, feigning any concern in Hannibal’s case.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Doctor thought of Abigail, who had been left home after she had taken the school day off. He had been called to take her home as the school thought she wasn’t fit to go on that field trip. She knew that Will could’ve been taken at any moment. She swore her silence to preserve the “family secret.” Hannibal took into account that she would still be in some state of shock. He pressed a kiss to her forehead before leaving her at home and driving to this appointment. Her eyes appeared so empty, she had not spoken a word since that happened. Hannibal know what it was like to mute selectively, having done it himself for two years as a boy. He opened his mouth to speak but the words were caught at the back of his throat. Instead, he resigned himself to taking a sip of the wine he was provided. It wasn’t anything remarkable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you considered his mental state?” Bedelia droned. She crossed and uncrossed her legs out of boredom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“His mental state?” Hannibal parroted. “Yes, I have. He’s been having recurring episodes of sleepwalking, dissociation, hallucinations, symptoms of spatial neglect, seizures. I had assumed encephalitis caused by a viral infection picked up from one of the strays he adopted within the last year. I had scheduled him a visit to one of the most trusted clinicians to confirm my hypothesis. But he was detained before I could take him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The psychiatrist frowned into her glass. “Were you present with Will for any of these episodes?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was present for nearly all of his seizures. I was by his bedside for all of the incidents of sleepwalking. Our existences have been in such proximity to each other that the thought of him having time to perform these tabloid murders had not occurred to me. Not in the slightest.” Hannibal dabbed at his eyes with the handkerchief. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The doctors sit in silent contemplation, unsure of where to go next. Bedelia would much prefer their session run short. However, she knew that therapy often spiraled down alternate paths that took a while to return back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal thought (almost) remorsefully of his last dispute with Will. One they had away from Abigail. The memory stabs at him painfully. The walls of his memory palace crack as the sounds of Will’s cries echoed through them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, no. What’s happening? Please don’t lie to me!”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal worried his brow at the sound. How he longed to reverse time. He longed to prevent Will from reaching this stage, yet it was a necessary evil. He wanted to comfort Will, bathe him, run to the pharmacy and purchase proper anti inflammatory drugs, </span>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
  <span> His safety and Abigail’s safety was first. The doctor had to steel himself and recognize Will for what he was in this condition: An obstacle. That night, weeks ago, was his tipping point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will felt ready to crawl out of his skin. The fabric of his jumpsuit clung annoyingly to his body. He timed the droning and flickering of the light in his cell. The bed under his back, if he could even call it that, groaned with every movement. This was utter fucking misery. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He should’ve been returning home from the school by now, with an armful of shitty trinkets from the museum gift shop. Abigail smiling at Hannibal’s dismay from the cheap goods; him grinning at the whole prank. Or at least he </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinks</span>
  </em>
  <span> he should be home by now. He’s fully lost track of time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sleeping would be impossible. Water almost clattered inside the pipes and the walls seemed to close in on Will by the second. Uncomfortable was an understatement. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The FBI Agent, </span>
  <em>
    <span>probably ex-agent,</span>
  </em>
  <span> rolled his eyes towards the voice. Not exactly a sight for sore eyes, Alana Bloom and a guard. He rolled himself off the cot, body still sore from the restraints they wheeled him out of the school parking lot in. He stood facing the bars of the temporary cell. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dr. Bloom,” he greeted. He waited a respectable distance from the gate, ready for the guard to cuff him and march him off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will was led to where his hands could be restrained via cuffs chained to the table. He took his seat and looked off at the chipping paint on the metal. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Alana’s eyes. Anyone’s for that matter. He fears that if he looks into anyone’s eyes he’ll get roped into them. Unable to look away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t kill them. I haven’t killed anyone since Hobbs,” Will said morosely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alana gave him a pitiful smile. She wanted to reach her hand out to comfort him, but that was probably not the best idea. “I want to believe you, Will. I really do but the evidence is overwhelmingly towards you being the Chesapeake Ripper.” Her voice quivered a little. As if to denote that she feared that she was really talking to one of the most sadistic mass-murderers in American history.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will scowled at his restraints.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How much do you remember, Will?” Alana questions. She folds her hands in front of her and leans in even closer, initiating eye contact. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not much. The past few months have been a terrible blur. You know that though.” Will’s voice was colored with irritation. He just got arrested and now he’s being interrogated by his daughter’s therapist. “I remember some things better than others, but most of the last year feel as though they’ve been clipped out entirely.” He explains, idly moving his hands as much as he can. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The look on Alana’s face grew increasingly maternal, it makes Will sick to his stomach. She was getting ready to psychoanalyze and coddle him in one fell swoop. It was that same wry simper that she had given him all those years ago back at the academy, before he kissed her out of impulse and immediately regretted it. They refuse to talk about it to this day. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Heat pricked at Will’s skin under that jumpsuit. He reaches to scratch before the chain at his wrist reminds him that he wasn’t afforded the simplest freedom of comfort. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Silently, Alana twisted around and reached into her bag, shuffling around for something. She returns to Will with a pen and some paper. “Draw a clock for me, Will.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What is it with these damn psychiatrists and drawing clocks?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked down at the glowing white face of the paper, long enough that its brightness burned his eyes. He opened his mouth to protest, but reevaluated before the complaint could leave his lips. “What time is it?” comes out instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nine-thirty.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will fidgeted with the pen before setting it to paper. “My name is Will Graham. I’m in Baltimore, Maryland. And it is nine-thirty p.m.” He notices how the pen gapped and scratched instead of wrote in places. And he drew another </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfectly acceptable</span>
  </em>
  <span> analog clock. He slides the stationary back over to Alana.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dr. Bloom is far worse at hiding her expression. Her lip curls downward into some kind of confused snarl. “Very good, Will,” she says with her eyes still glued on the clock. When the piece of paper disappears into her bag she smiles at Will, ready to continue their discussion. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The clicking of shoes fill Jack’s office. Hannibal Lecter and Alana Bloom. He held tension in his brow, hoping for some kind of explanation for what in God’s name got his best profiler locked up for murder.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The psychiatrists take their seat at the desk, each with their own unreadable expression. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dr. Bloom, Dr. Lecter,” Crawford acknowledged. “Let’s cut to the chase: What the hell happened to Will Graham?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal nodded, permitting Alana to speak first. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, from what I’ve collected, it seems like he doesn’t recall killing anyone after Garret Jacob Hobbs. He also,” she paused to scramble around in her bag, “gave me this. I asked him to draw a clock to test for cognitive deterioration.” Alana set the drawing on the table between the three. Jack scrutinized it heavily, confused how someone could draw such a bad clock. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s drastic,” Hannibal announced. The doctor reached into his coat for a leather-bound notebook. “He gave me this a few weeks ago when I requested the same.” Lecter flipped to a page in the middle and retrieved a loose page. He set the paper neatly next to the other sheet. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A perfectly normal clock, signed by Will Graham.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack and Alana stared in awe at the drastic difference. Hannibal imitated them, though he knew Will’s “first” clock was simply a fabrication he got Abigail to draw and Will to sign while he was inebriated. Actually, the one he gave Alana was an improvement from the first. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you think this is?” Jack questioned, though it came out more of an exasperated plea. His fingers drummed against his desk as his eyes stared between the two clocks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have his physicians reports from his last visit, however, I suppose it would be of no use considering it was from before he began to exhibit odd behaviors. I had planned to send him to another, more specialized, doctor to confirm my suspicions-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Suspicions of what?” Jack shot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hannibal’s lip twitched slightly, as if he was genuinely speaking ahead of his thoughts. “Ah, my apologies. Suspicions of viral encephalitis.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That makes sense,” Alana concluded. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If that’s what you two believe,” Crawford checked quickly to see if the psychiatrists were in agreement, “Then I will send a request to Dr. Chilton at the hospital to send Will for a check-up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Long time no see! Sorry for the wait, school just scrambled my brain and nerfed my ability to write.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Afternoon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Just another day in the BSHCI ft. Will's foreshadow-y nightmares and medical horror! (only if you squint)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>lol just a heads up/tw for gore... I mean this is a Hannibal fic but just in case since it's a little more in depth than normal today</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Will could be mad right now. In fact he should be fuming. But blanketed over his anger is fatigue. That irks him more. The exhaustion kneecapped his ability to express the wrath that festered at the back of his mind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lives his life like a circus animal, caged eternally except to be gawked at. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And this cell is disgusting too. Stains of god knows what on everything, the smell of rust and rotting concrete envelop him. He hardly believes the place has gone under any maintenance since it was built. Nothing about it was nullified for safety. He could honestly hang himself </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>easily with what he’s got. He definitely considered it the other night. And the cages? Really? They were a bit too obvious, a caricature of a mental asylum.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s permitted to shower once a week, </span>
  <em>
    <span>with surveillance.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Will’s hair has grown too long for his liking, unruly curls stab into the base of his neck and mat to his forehead with sweat.  His jumpsuit reeks. It doesn’t matter how much he changes it, the smell of crazy has seemingly woven itself into the fabric. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the worst part of being framed for someone else’s crimes, have everyone believe the conviction, and getting locked up in a mental institution: The other guys in this place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will fucking hated every single one of them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dr. Frederick Chilton was incessant. He ran the place like his own personal playground of malpractice. Will suspected he had been fraternizing with Hannibal. Yet, he wasn’t focused on Will. He doesn’t even think Will is the Chesapeake Ripper. No. His attention was directed onto Abel Gideon. Will had lectured once at the academy about Gideon, how much a person has metamorphosed since their crime. A surgeon, killed his entire family in blind rage, yet extremely docile. A model for behavior after being confined to the state hospital. Gideon was in the cell next to him. The wall between them was thinner than Will would like it to be. He tried talking with the other man one time and now; his rants are an additional accomplice to Will’s insomnia. Lest he forget Matthew Brown-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Graham?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Speak of the Devil.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Graham I have your lunch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s lunch already?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It seems so.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The inmate scooted off the edge of the paper thin mattress to accept the tray from behind the bars. He tried extremely hard not to look Matthew directly in the face. He could practically feel that sick smile. Will hesitantly accepted the plastic plate and stared </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> too long at it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Enjoy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Will lingered for a second. “You can just call me Will.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The orderly only smiled at Will’s request before shuffling his cart away. He looked far too indulged every time he had to talk to Will. The boy was, predatory and unsettling. Will sensed that he was perversely elated every time he called Will “Mr. Graham.” It reminded Will of students in his class that had fleeting crushes on him. Each one desperately trying and miserably failing to seduce him into letting the additional work slide for the semester.  But now, everybody knew Will’s life. Everything about him was public information; no longer psychology circle gossip. Matthew Brown knew he was a father, a husband.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A husband.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The vacancy on his ring finger makes itself known. They took his ring, locked it away somewhere with his keys and wallet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will decided not to think too hard about what this meant for Hannibal; or Abigail for that matter. He redirected to the unappealing tray of food. Months of home cooking ruined him. Maybe it was the meds or the smell of damp concrete, but his appetite was killed at his capture. He thinks it’s a steak, gravy, vegetables, and a small carton of juice. In a separate compartment molded into the tray holds an assortment of pills to take with the water in a paper cup. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He sucks it up and does his best to let the juice wash away the pallid meat and soggy vegetables. He just needs it gone quickly. It’s been far too long since Will felt like eating was a chore. It aches in his chest just how much he missed being cared for. The feeling was irrational to him prior to this, but he wished he’d never go back to that.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Boy, was he so wrong.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pills go down dry, scraping down his throat. Water didn’t help by the sheer amount of medication he had to take. Will almost chokes on them every time. He stuck around Hannibal long enough to guess deduce what </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough</span>
  </em>
  <span> of them were probably for. Antiviral, anti- inflammatory, mood stabilizers, antipsychotics, anti-epileptic, and garden variety pain killer. Will thinks about what this was going to do to his liver. He stops caring as he remembers he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a frequent drinker and smoked when he was especially stressed. He shrugs off the paranoia and sets the tray on the floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Staring mindlessly at the ceiling, he wonders just how long he has to live his life this miserably. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Time passes. It’s unclear how much had gone by, but it definitely has. And Will’s head is loopy, vacant from the cocktail of pills. He cant feel much but a dull buzzing in his fingertips and only assumes it’s his pulse. He watches as the blades of the large industrial fans in the ceiling make their rounds. They look like they’d do some damage and he tries fighting away thoughts of what those could do to people. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Chop, chop, chop.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He mimics the sound of a swinging blade. Just for fun. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will tries to battle away the thoughts. Viscera wasn’t amusing, and he finds himself concerned that gore was his go to thought now. He surmises that maybe he was the Chesapeake Ripper all along. Perhaps his blackouts started earlier than he remembers, maybe the doctors were wrong about the encephalitis and he was truly just insane. He caught the killers so well because he was one himself. Maybe trauma stopped him from remembering anyone else other than Hobbs or his dad. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Something like that.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyelids grow heavy. Sleeping came far easier these days. Will lets the world crumble into black.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows this place. The woods behind his house. It’s night and the fog is nearly suffocating. Howling winds bite at his skin, lashing against it. Something compels him to walk into the woods. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He knows he shouldn’t, but he has to. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The longer he treads the louder it gets. He hears voices whispering for him. He wants to scream at them to shut the hell up, he doesn’t have to listen. He doesn’t want to listen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, he sees it. More accurately, </span>
  <em>
    <span>it sees him.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Towering antlers and glowing eyes. A monstrously twisted approximation of a man. Stoic as it is, Will can feel its hunger. Blood, shining black in the moonlight, drips off its claws.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fear clutches Will’s heart. Strangling it, wringing the blood from the muscle. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He can’t move. He can’t move. He can’t move. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A low snarling fills his ears. He gets it now. It has to feed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will’s jaw locks into place, fixed. His jaw is clamped down so hard he expects a tooth to crack. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The creature lunges swiftly at Will, wasting no time to circle or trap him. He’s on the ground now, body completely helpless under the weight of the monster. It drags a hand over his neck, skin freezing cold, devoid of life on its own. The nails catch on Will’s skin as he struggles as best he can. He knows this is futile, but he is human goddamnit, defiant until the last moment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His airway goes first. A suffocating grip breaks his neck. He is paralyzed, but he can still see and feel everything. Will knows that he will die. He will watch his demise at the hands of the beast. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Searing heat rips through his abdomen and he smells blood. Piece by piece, the monster greedily grabs parts through the incision. Intestines, stomach, kidneys. The thing’s mouth is an inhuman gape with extra rows of canines. They make very quick work of all of Will’s organs. His vision blurs at the edges as more gets taken out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like a cruel joke that the monster leaves his heart for last. It’s still beating for some reason and the thrum of his pulse is all he can cling onto. He feels the claws inside him again. It takes extra care to remove his heart with a shocking amount of surgical precision. Blood immediately rushes out, going everywhere, filling the vacancy in his chest cavity. Its warmth is comforting, providing Will a temporary relief from the wind. (Maybe he needs to reevaluate why fresh blood is so comforting and familiar to him.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Terror seems to overcome him more as the creature makes sure to stare at him as it eats his heart with the same voracious intensity it did the rest of him. He’s somehow still alive. He doesn’t question why; he’s too fixated on watching the feeding. Will’s narrowing his eyes in disgust as the creature’s face looms directly over his now. Blood drips down from the monster’s face onto Will’s. Its unblinking gaze bores even deeper into Will. Into his psyche. The hunger has transcended the physical plane. It wants all of Will. Down to the final drop of his very soul. Yet this beast only knows destruction. It will get what it wants through destruction. The monster does not deny itself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He finally begins to process the image before him. That starved stare is unmistakable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hannibal. Hannibal only knows destruction. Hannibal will get what he wants through destruction. Hannibal does not deny himself. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hannibal did this to him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will calls out, screaming for his husband until he’s met by foreign restraint. Is he... </span>
  <em>
    <span>strapped to the bed?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Diligent hands keep his shoulders still and he has no idea where he is. His eyes dart around so frantically they strain. The world around him is a blur. He finds himself strapped to a gurney, the mask on his face whirs strangely. It immediately mirrors Abigail in his mind.  He’s panicked. His eyes recognize a face above him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fantastic.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sees Matthew Brown again before he hears the beeping of the ECG and the oxygen monitor clipped onto his finger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re awake,” the orderly muses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where the hell am I?” Will asks weakly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to the medical ward. Did you know you have sleep apnea, Mr. Graham?” Matthew hums, eyes focused in front of him as nurses guide the assortment of machines. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sleep apnea?” Will thinks as much as he can. “No. I wasn’t aware of that.”  He closes his eyes to shield them from the glare of fluorescent lights. “How’d you figure that out?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I went to drop off your dinner before I realized you weren’t breathing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will nods as much as his position would allow him. He tries and flicks his wrist before the cuffs stop him from moving fully. “Did you really have to restrain me?” He rasps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm, hmm, yes we did, Mr. Graham. You’re what we call, high risk.” Matthew flashes him another wry smile. “It’d be too dangerous if you were to wake up, unrestrained.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The patient rolls his eyes under his lids at the response. He waits until the rhythm of the wheels stop. Then, the gurney is tipped forward and it takes several staff members to transfer Will to the hospital bed. He finds it unnecessary but complies anyways. Everybody moved so quickly, Will barely recognizes that he has been moved to the hospital bed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will is now propped upright, staring at the desolate wall in front of him. He was instructed to wait for the doctor. He has no idea how long that would take. His right wrist has been cuffed to the rail of the bed. Another cruel reminder that he was essentially a prisoner. The patient feels nothing more than some kind of science experiment. Hooked to several things at once, he thinks that these are less for his health and more so the hospital knows every little thing about him. Constantly exposed and measured. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He goes to lick his lips to relieve the dryness and finds a split right down the middle, tasting blood. The inside of his mouth is just as excruciatingly dry. He considers hitting the call button to ask for some water, yet considers it a fruitless task. The doctor was going to arrive any minute. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” he reminds himself. His voice nothing but a low rumble, barely heard over the device regulating the pressure in his airways. (He questions briefly if he really did have sleep apnea, otherwise Hannibal would have already been onto treating it. Will knows he would have preferred doing it himself.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despite his instruction, his body then begins to betray him yet again. The edges of his vision darken. His head nods forward with exhaustion. Will is going to surrender himself to sleep again. In the corners of his fleeting sight, however, he sees the monster again. Watching him. Waiting for him. He clenches his hands to try and steel himself. He would not allow the hallucination to consume him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will shuts his eyes, he tries a grounding method, it’s not working. He doesn’t give a damn if it’s not working, the sound of his heart rate is going to keep trying to lull him to sleep. Years of falling asleep against Hannibal’s chest has conditioned him to do such; to find the beat indescribably comforting. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I think this is the only chapter without Hannibal in it so far</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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